Want You Back
by Empathist
Summary: August 2010. Brendan Brady has left Belfast for Hollyoaks, leaving Macca behind to pick up the pieces. A follow-up to the prequel story Breaking Rules, covering Macca's time in Hollyoaks, and the beginning of Stendan.
1. Chapter 1

_This story begins in August 2010, and follows on from the prequel story Breaking Rules_. _Brendan Brady has moved to England, leaving Macca behind in Belfast._

* * *

><p>In the days after Brendan left him, Macca began to realise the extent of the changes this man had wrought in his life during the year of their affair.<p>

Brendan was in England now, with his sister Cheryl. He had fled Belfast in the aftermath of his wife Eileen's discovery of the two men, her husband and her nephew, in bed together: the marriage was over, and Macca knew that his lover was gone for good.

On his own now, Macca recognised that the process of isolation had begun a long time ago. When he and Brendan had first got together, Macca had had a boyfriend, but as soon as he'd felt himself beginning to fall in love with Brendan he had ended his relationship with Matt, even before Brendan told him to

Macca had already been somewhat estranged from his parents, because although they pretended otherwise, they had struggled to accept his lifestyle since he'd come out to them when he was a teenager. Their awkwardness around him made him uncomfortable, so he'd seen them less and less, and once he was with Brendan he barely saw them at all. It was a similar story with the rest of the family: he avoided seeing his auntie Eileen as much as he could in case he gave anything away. And whereas he used to see his nan – Eileen's mum – and his other relations quite a bit, it clearly made Brendan jittery, and so Macca's visits to them had become rare.

At first, Brendan had always phoned or texted to arrange to come round, but it hadn't been long before he had his own keys and would just turn up, expecting Macca to be there. Macca didn't mind this; the sound of Brendan's key in the lock would fill him with anticipation, and the knowledge that a man like this wanted him so much, was thrilling and affirming. But it meant that he no longer went out very much, coming home from work and staying in just in case Brendan chose to come.

Once, in the early months, Macca had gone out to a club for a friend's birthday. His phone had rung at ten o'clock.

"Brendan?"

"Guess where I am."

"My place?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's right. So where the fuck are you?"

"Out with my mates, Brendan. You didn't tell me you wanted - "

"Any point in me waiting, or are you staying out with your _mates_?"

"Don't go. I'll come home, yeah?"

Macca had got a taxi he couldn't afford, and arrived home breathless from running up the stairs. Brendan's mood had been dark, and he had a few whiskeys inside him. He'd examined Macca searchingly as the boy got his breath back, scenting him like an animal would for traces of a rival.

"You didn't tell me you were coming," Macca had said quietly.

"What, I've to make an appointment now?"

Brendan had been close enough to kiss, but Macca had been frightened of making the first move.

"I'd have been here if I'd known, Bren, that's all I meant."

Brendan had taken a step back then, and put his hands on Macca's shoulders.

"What mates were you with?"

"A bunch of them, you know, just - "

"Your boyfriend there, was he?"

"Matt? He's long gone, Brendan, you know that. It was someone's birthday, that's all. That's all, I swear."

Brendan had looked at him intently before pulling Macca towards him.

"That's okay then," he'd said, and leaned down to kiss him so gently that the fear Macca had felt a moment ago seemed a foolish overreaction. And then they'd gone to bed, and Brendan had surrounded his body and occupied it, reminding Macca of his ownership of him: as if he could ever forget. Afterwards, lying together, wet with each other's sweat, all Macca's senses alight as Brendan slept, he had known that nothing in the world outside could compare.

He didn't see his friends much after that; it was easier this way.

:::::::

Only now, with Brendan gone, did Macca begin to understand the depth of his isolation. There was no chance of a reconciliation with Eileen any time soon: she hated him, and he understood why. Her small act of revenge immediately after she'd discovered the affair had been to get Macca sacked from his job. He thought this would be just the beginning, and that next, she would cut him off from the family entirely. It was unlikely that she would tell them what he had done to hurt her, but Macca was sure she could find a way to turn them against him if she wanted to. It made him reluctant to speak to any of them. And with no job, and only the month's pay his boss had handed over in lieu of notice, and five hundred pounds Brendan had given him before he left, Macca had no-one to turn to.

On the night Brendan left, he had come to Macca and held him, and hurt him just a bit, and then kissed him. It had to mean something. Otherwise, with the last of his bruises fading away, Macca had lost everything.

:::::::

Brendan's life was busy when he arrived in Hollyoaks village. He found out as much as he could about the way the place ticked, keeping his eyes and ears open: there was more going on there than he'd expected.

Cheryl's windfall from her win on the scratchcards needed protecting. Brendan had run out of money himself, having given most of his cash to Eileen for her and the kids, and a few hundred to Macca to tide him over til he got another job. He set about making himself indispensable to his sister. Cheryl couldn't afford to buy the local nightclub with what was left of her winnings, but she'd set her heart on it, so Brendan called a longtime associate of his. Danny Houston was always looking for nice clean businesses to absorb his dirty money, and within days the deal was done. Houston was the silent partner, and Brendan hoped it would stay that way because he didn't want his sister exposed to the kind of danger that Houston carried with him; and in any case, Brendan wanted to run things his way. It wasn't Brendan's club, but Cheryl looked up to him, and everyone would work out soon enough that he was in charge.

He thought about Macca occasionally in those first weeks; the boy had been a constant in his life over the past year, available and eager. Resilient, too: the poor kid had had to be. What Macca hadn't had to be was _kind_, and yet he'd chosen to be. Brendan did his best to forget him. As far as he was concerned, that last kiss, on the night he'd left Belfast, was the end of it. The affair had been almost entirely conducted in Macca's flat, cloistered away, but when Eileen had walked in on them, a searchlight had shone in from the real world, and Brendan felt sick now to think of all the things they'd done in that bed.

Macca texted him now and again after he'd gone to England, and sometimes Brendan would reply; but it meant nothing.

:::::::

Something else happened which gave Brendan a vague feeling of unease – so vague that it was only when he looked back on it much later that he realised the feeling was connected to this lad: this lad who'd shown up, hired by Cheryl to do the catering for the club's opening night. It turned out he was undercutting his own boss to get the contract and the money for himself; only, what he got for himself was the sack. Then somehow Brendan wound up punching the boy – Ste, he was called – at the opening party. The cheeky bastard then tried to blackmail Brendan into employing him at the club, threatening to report him for assault if he didn't.

Brendan was tempted to kick him into next week for trying to get one over on him. But there was something in the air around this boy that was alive with possibilities. Brendan couldn't define it, was barely even aware of it. But he gave him a job.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't exactly a plan. It had been an idea, really, a passing thought, as Brendan had driven down from Liverpool the day he arrived from Belfast. He'd wondered what it would be like in this village where Cheryl had settled, and how his life would be if he decided to stay there too. He'd lived away from home before, but it was different this time, because he no longer had a home with Eileen and the kids: he had nowhere to go back to. This was another country and a new start, although not one that he would have chosen.

Whatever it was that he'd had with Macca, was dead. Between them, Vinnie and Macca had been with Brendan for more than two years. It had suited him, he'd realised, to have someone regular like that, and he hated the idea of reverting to what he used to do, before Vinnie, going out looking for men to hook up with for anonymous, hurried sex which left him tortured with self-loathing. There had been lads, over the years, who'd lasted a few weeks or even a few months: one, Brendan had dropped when they nearly got caught together; others hadn't come back after he'd hurt them, unlike Macca and Vinnie. And, unlike with Macca and Vinnie, he hadn't cared enough to pursue them.

For these last couple of years with his latest two lads he'd been able to blame himself a little less, because in coming back to him again and again, Vinnie and Macca were culpable in what he did with them.

So Brendan's passing thought, that wasn't exactly a plan, was this: he would find a new boy but, wiser now from experience, he would choose him carefully. The last two had got emotional and told Brendan that they loved him.

With Vinnie, he supposed it was because he was so young. He'd been eighteen when he walked into the Liverpool club asking for a job. He'd brought ID with him because he was used to having to prove that he wasn't under age, but still Brendan had turned him down.

"No offence, son, but it's not just pouring drinks and collecting the empties. There's crates to be carried, heavy lifting." He'd taken in how slight the boy was.

"I'm asking to be a barman not a bouncer," Vinnie had said. "I'd work dead hard, Mr Brady."

It was the way Vinnie had stood his ground, even though he'd looked as if he wanted to run away, that made Brendan say, "Okay. I'll give you a couple of shifts to see how you shape up, then we'll talk."

"Honest?" Vinnie had suddenly smiled, and it was like the sun coming out.

He'd been innocent and trusting. Sex was new to him, and it must have been that that had messed with his head and made him think he was in love with Brendan. He couldn't have been: men couldn't love each other, not like that. But the kid believed it, and said it, and got beaten for it. Vinnie had asked for it. Brendan had had no choice.

Eighteen when they met; nineteen when Brendan claimed him. Twenty when he left him. Never made it to twenty-one.

Macca was a bit older and had lived a lot more. He was gay; didn't shout about it, but didn't care who knew it either. That was why the love thing came up with him, Brendan supposed – because he thought men _could_ love each other in that way. The first time Macca had said it was quite early on in their... Quite early on. Brendan had hurt him for saying it, and Macca had learnt his lesson and never said it again, not until the day Brendan came to tell him it was over, after Eileen had caught them in bed. He got a black eye for saying it that day. Then they'd fucked the pain away for the last time.

So the next boy Brendan picked would have to have lived a bit, and know that there was a difference between sex and love. And he'd better not be gay, with all those perverted notions about _relationships_.

:::::::

In the first three or four weeks after Brendan fled, Macca barely left his flat except to look for work. He was disorientated. He was used to having the man at the forefront of his mind every day, thinking about the last time he'd been in his bed, anticipating the next.

He had let most of his friendships fall away over the year, because he had wanted to be available for his lover, and because the most innocuous questions - "What's new?" - required lies in reply, a strain he didn't need. And in any case, Brendan had taken up all the emotional space he had. But now, as the emptiness in his life began to oppress him, he decided he'd better start to get his act together. He rang a couple of mates, and they arranged to meet up on Friday night to catch up.

It was good to see them. There were a few of them by the time the night got going, and they drank and danced in one of the clubs where they usually hung out. It seemed to Macca a very long time since he'd had any uncomplicated fun.

Then Matt arrived: the boyfriend Macca had dumped when he started seeing Brendan. One of the lads had given him a call, thinking that Macca and Matt might be up for giving it another go.

It was weird. It felt like a lifetime ago that Macca was with this boy, unable to believe his luck at finding someone so beautiful. He'd been insecure about the relationship, thinking that someone more Alpha would come along and steal Matt away: ironic. Seeing him again, his pale blond looks and ethereal aura were still breathtaking. Macca asked him to dance.

They went home together, back to Macca's as Matt lived with his parents. Their initial awkwardness at the club had been tempered by drinking, and now they naturally went to the bedroom and kissed and undressed. Matt's face was smooth, his kisses sweet. His body, silky-skinned and lightly muscled, used to delight Macca; now it felt lacking. Macca scrabbled in a drawer for a condom – not one of Brendan's, but one of his own from before. He sat on the edge of the bed to put it on, and Matt knelt behind him and kissed his neck softly where Brendan used to bite.

They lay together, kissing and caressing. Macca got on top of Matt and gently eased into him; Matt's legs circled Macca's waist as their rhythm hit its stride. It felt unfamiliar to Macca. He had never been inside Brendan - never even thought about it – and hadn't done this since his last time with this boyfriend. What used to satisfy him now felt half-lived: he'd been used to having all his senses engaged, alert to where, on the continuum from tender to dangerous, his lover was at any given moment. The experience he was having now with his ex felt etiolated and insipid.

Macca knew it wasn't Matt who had changed.

:::::::

It was less than two weeks after Brendan arrived in the village that a likely candidate turned up. It took him a couple more weeks to realise that this boy Ste might be what he was looking for, and then he began to watch him. He had given him a job at Chez Chez, so it was easy to observe him and subtly to find out about him. He was a bit of a chancer, this lad, and had done a stretch in Young Offenders in his teens. There was a wariness about him that suggested he had seen too much, but really he wasn't much more than a kid himself: not yet twenty-one, according to his employee records. And yet it turned out he'd got a couple of children of his own. Brendan was reminded of when he and Eileen were parents too young, and the way it had focused him, and how there was a constant pressure to put food in their mouths and clothes on their backs, and how he'd done whatever it took. Whatever it took to make their childhood better than his own.

So they had their similarities, Brendan and Ste. They were both family men, so to speak. Not queer. Used to having their wits about them, although Ste didn't appear to be the brightest lad. That might be an advantage, though: it wasn't his conversation that Brendan was after.

:::::::

Macca went to the bathroom to get rid of the condom, and looked at his face in the mirror. He felt ashamed, as if he had betrayed his own heart.

When he returned to the bedroom, Matt was getting dressed.

"You leaving?"

"Yeah. Look, Macca, I don't know who it was you were thinking about there, but I know it wasn't me."

"Dunno what you're talking about," Macca lied.

"Whatever. I've phoned for a cab." Matt made towards the door, then turned back. "At least we both know now, you were right to end it last year."

Macca went to him and they hugged.

"I'm sorry, Matt."

"Me too."

Macca let him go.

It had been too soon to try to move on, he'd been stupid to think otherwise. But he had proved to himself that nobody could take Brendan's place in his heart and in his bed. Macca was surer now than ever: he wanted Brendan back.


	3. Chapter 3

Brendan was on Ste's trail.

It wasn't going to be easy, though, getting him where he wanted him. The idea was to make Ste want to please him, but the boy was surprisingly resistant and suspected the worst of his new boss. He was smarter than Brendan's first impressions of him, and had worked out very quickly that Brendan dealt drugs and used people without a qualm. Brendan threatened him a few times, just so there was no doubt who was in charge; and rewarded him too, with extra cash or the odd word of praise, so Ste never knew quite where he stood. And yet whatever warnings Brendan gave him, he bounced back.

Needing to make himself some money, Brendan began to groom a convenient dumb blonde, Carmel, so that he could use her to carry drugs through the security at an event at the local students' union bar. He knew that Ste, aware that Brendan was up to something, was watching him. After the event, Brendan even caught him in the office at the club, nosing in the safe looking for the drugs money. When he got in Ste's face and told him he'd used up all his chances, he saw fear in his eyes and yet still the stubborn little sod didn't give up: he found out Brendan intended to take Carmel to Spain to smuggle back some more supplies, and came at Brendan with more questions, all fired up and self-righteous in defence of the poor innocent girl. This was starting to get annoying. Brendan began to think maybe he'd been wrong to set his sights on this boy.

There was also Amy. She was the mother of Ste's son, and although they were no longer a couple, they acted like they were, still living together and comfortable enough to bicker in public. It seemed to Brendan that Amy was another obstacle he'd have to get round; but she also presented him with a way to stop Ste interfering in his manipulation of Carmel. So when Ste confronted him once too often, Brendan hauled him into the office and made the perfect threat: back off, or he'd take Amy to Spain instead.

Brendan felt a thrill of triumph as he saw in Ste's face the realisation that Brendan had the winning hand. At the same moment though, when he found he couldn't resist touching Ste's face fleetingly with the tips of his fingers, Brendan had a sense that the boy held some cards of his own.

:::::::

Macca had been thinking about getting in touch with Eileen. He wanted to know what she'd said or planned to say to the rest of the family about what had happened with Brendan; he didn't want to put his foot in it if he saw any of them. He guessed that she wouldn't be telling anyone the truth, but surely people would pick up on her sudden animosity towards her nephew, and he wanted to know how she would explain it away.

And he wanted to tell Eileen that he was sorry. Sorry that he'd abused her trust. Sorry that she'd found out about them in the way she had, walking in on him and Brendan at the climax of a technicolour fuck, with all its sounds and smells and sweat and spit and cum and entangled, feverish chaos. But he wasn't sorry that he had fallen in love with her husband, or that he was still in love with him even though Brendan had left them both.

Macca wanted Eileen to know that that it wasn't something casual. Not for him, anyway. Initially, when he'd first realised that Brendan was gay, then yes, it was all about curiosity. But it had become something else, impossible to give up, as Macca's feelings had developed and Brendan had demanded more and more from him. He wanted to explain that he had had no intention of hurting her – that was just a side-effect, terrible but unavoidable. Eileen had loved Brendan, so she must be able to understand the futility of trying to resist him.

He sent Brendan a text.

#_ Want to go see E to explain. That ok? xx_

Brendan called him back a couple of hours later.

"Jesus, Macca, are you serious?"

Macca could hear a lot of noise in the background: Brendan must have been calling from Cheryl's club.

"I just want to tell her, I didn't mean for her to get hurt. And find out what she's telling people."

"She's told people I cheated on her, okay?" Brendan sounded as if he was trying not to let anyone overhear. "You just stay out of it, keep out of her way, d'you hear me?"

"If that's what you want." Macca paused, then said in a rush, "God, Bren, I miss you. I'm lost without you here. Can't I come and see you? We could - "

"Out of the question."

"But after everything we've been through, Brendan. Why not?"

"Because I said so," Brendan snarled, and Macca heard the connection go dead.

::::::::

Brendan stood in a bar in Barcelona with a cold beer. It was early evening; the sun was still ferocious, but here inside, the fans on the ceiling whirred the heat away.

He had had his initial meeting with his contacts, and handed over half the money. Tomorrow they would bring the goods and he would pay the balance. Carmel was back at their hotel, waiting for him to return to take her out to dinner, but already he had had enough of her inane chatter, so after his meeting he had walked up the Carrer d'Arago and found this place to kill some time on his own. The girl would be fine for a while yet, making the most of the hotel's spa and gym and beauty treatments.

Brendan leaned on the bar and watched a bunch of lads chatting to the barman. Chatting up, more like. He guessed they were starting their Saturday night here before heading north into the gay district. They appeared so at ease with who they were: Brendan was fascinated, and uncomprehending.

He found himself thinking of home – if that's what he could call the place he'd moved to. He felt as if he was getting nowhere with Ste. They'd parted on bad terms, Ste looking at him with disapproval bordering on hatred as he'd left for the airport with Carmel. Maybe the threat he'd made to make Amy his drugs mule had been a step too far. _Shit_. He almost wished that when, a few days ago, Macca had asked him on the phone if he could come over to see him, he'd said yes. Things had been simple with Macca; he was a good lad and had rarely needed much persuading, even when he'd taken a beating.

God alone knew if Ste would ever come around.

Brendan was ready for another beer.

By this time, the group of lads had headed off, and Brendan caught the barman's eye. Getting his money out, he accidentally dropped a couple of notes on the floor.

"Fuck," he said, and picked them up.

The barman smiled at him.

"You English?"

"Yeah." No point giving anything away. He looked at the barman properly for the first time. He was young. Skinny. Maybe north African. Smooth brown skin making his shirt look extra white. "Where you from, son?"

"Morocco. Casablanca, you know?"

Brendan smiled. Of all the bars in all the world...

"I'm a student here. Medical." The lad's English was good, and he apparently wanted to chat. "You on vacation?"

"Business. And pleasure." Brendan held the young man's gaze for a few seconds. "I'll have another one of these - " he indicated his beer bottle - "And one for yourself."

The bar got a little busier, and a second barman came on duty. The young one, Kamal, kept drifting back towards Brendan between serving other customers.

"My break is soon." Kamal spoke quietly and intently. "My room is not far."

"Okay."

Brendan went to find the toilets.

_If there's no condom machine, I'll leave now._

There was a machine. In working order and fully stocked.

_If I haven't got the right coins, that's it, I'll go._

He pulled a handful of change from his pocket, and counted out the correct amount. He fed the euros into the machine and made his choice.

Back at the bar, Kamal handed Brendan another beer.

"Five minutes more, then my break." He looked at Brendan's left hand, touched the wedding ring, and asked with a grin, "Wife or civil partner?"

"What?" Brendan fought the urge to grab the barman and drag him over the bar. "You think I'm..?"

He became aware of people looking at him, and ran out onto the crowded street, alone.

::::::::

On the plane heading home on Monday morning, Carmel beside him, a package of cocaine in among her shopping in the overhead locker, Brendan pretended to sleep. He needed to think.

He couldn't pick up men any more: it was sick, and anyway it was a younger man's game. So it was back to his original plan, to get someone to have as a regular thing.

If only he could break down his hostility, Ste would be the perfect choice. Stephen. Perfect because he was a survivor, and wouldn't think the occasional punch was the end of the world: it was just the way things worked, and if you didn't want another one you just had to watch how you behaved. Perfect because he'd be discreet, coming from an underclass where you wouldn't want anyone to think you were queer. And because with a criminal record and two kids to support, he wouldn't risk losing his job by rocking the boat.

Being the perfect choice had nothing to do with his blue, young-old eyes, with those long angelic lashes that were fucking absurd on a grown man. Nor the way his Adam's apple jutted in an angular statement of masculinity at odds with his boyish body. Nor was it because of those flawless cheekbones that might have been sculpted by an artist. Nor the stroppy, pouting mouth which – though Stephen didn't know it yet – was created for sin.


	4. Chapter 4

When he arrived back with Carmel from the trip to Barcelona, Brendan was looking forward to seeing Stephen. It was a feeling that unsettled him. He told himself that it was just because he hadn't had sex for five or six weeks now, and as this was the lad he had decided to target, it was an understandable response: of course he wanted to see Stephen, so he could carry on working on seducing him. The fact that if a fuck was all he was after, he could have shagged that barman in Spain (what was it about barmen?) was neither here nor there.

He had gone far longer than this without sex though, many times over the years, either when he hadn't been able to get away from home to a city where anonymous men were easy to find, or when his disgust at himself had got so overwhelming that for a while he'd tried and tried to be a normal husband. It was just that lately, he had become accustomed to having someone there whenever he wanted: a year or so with Vinnie then about the same with Macca, with just a few weeks in between when he'd had no-one. Well, no-one except Eileen, but that didn't count - it wasn't what you'd call real sex, there was none of the visceral urgency and recklessness that only another man could give him and take from him.

Back from Spain, Brendan was ready to try a different tack with Stephen. The way he had treated him so far, with the intimidation far outweighing the few crumbs of appreciation he'd thrown him, didn't seem to be getting him anywhere, especially since he'd threatened to use Amy in place of Carmel on the drugs run. Too far. Time to be nicer: make Stephen want him as a friend. But before Brendan had a chance, the boy was at it again with his pious disapproval, sneakily searching for the smuggled cocaine, and accusing him of trying it on with that airhead Carmel. For fuck's sake. It made Brendan angry: Stephen seriously disliked him. Maybe he should admit defeat and look for someone else, someone less difficult.

There was another lad around, as it happened, a student who'd done one or two little jobs for Brendan. Little American guy called Doug. Had an air of rootlessness about him, sadness even, which along with his flexible morality, would have made him easy prey. He had lips that Brendan could almost taste when he looked at them. But this kid was foolish. He hadn't figured out that drugs were for selling, not for using, and not for pushing to your friends. Some girl Doug knew had got some pills from him and decided she could fly: crashed to the ground and might never walk again. Brendan wasn't surprised when Doug took an overdose – he recognised the urge to make it all stop. But the lad had had his stomach pumped and survived, although he'd have to live with the guilt of how his friend had been injured. It would haunt his dreams, Brendan knew.

Someone said he'd left the country as soon as he left the hospital. So that was that.

:::::::

Macca wished he could speak to Eileen to square things with her, if that was even possible. But when he'd told Brendan on the phone that this was what he wanted to do, Brendan had told him unequivocally to stay out of her way. And Macca usually did what he was told by Brendan: it was easier, and it was safer.

He'd been steering clear of the family since Eileen had started hating him, frightened of what they might have heard. But he missed his nan – Eileen's mum – and so he phoned her. She asked him over after Mass on Sunday and, because he missed her Sunday lunches too, he said yes. Macca tried to find out who else would be there, but his nan wasn't sure yet. He couldn't hide away for ever, though, so he went.

It was a warm September day. Nobody answered the front door, but Macca could hear voices coming from out the back so he opened the side gate, squeezed past the dustbins and walked down the narrow path between his nan's house and the house next door, and into the garden.

The first person he saw was Padraig, Brendan's younger son, who bombed towards him shouting "Macca!" and nearly knocked him flying.

"Hiya, Padraig." It was too late to leave now. "Alright, Declan?"

The older boy was sitting on the swing, the one Macca had played on when he was little, as had all his nan's children and grandchildren over the years. Declan had long outgrown it now. He looked up, smiled and said "Hi," then carried on texting. Macca left his cousins, and went through the back door into the kitchen.

"Hello, stranger," his nan said. Macca was short, but she was tiny, and his hug lifted her off the floor. Then he saw Eileen. As their eyes met, Macca thought of the last time he had seen her, when she'd walked in and found him and Brendan in bed. He knew that she was thinking the same thing.

"Eileen."

"Macca." Eileen busied herself laying the table, every now and then shooting at Macca a glance of pure animosity. He felt himself beginning to sweat, and wanted to run away. Brendan had been right, he should have kept his distance.

"Oh mum," Eileen said, "While I think of it, are you still okay to have the boys for me?" It was clear she wanted Macca to hear this.

"Course, love, I'm looking forward to it," his nan smiled.

"It's from after school on Friday," Eileen continued. "I'll be in Manchester for the weekend, then with Brendan for a few days. Not sure how long, depends how it goes."

Macca's stomach tightened. He knew that Eileen and Brendan were over – there was no going back from what had happened - but the thought of her going to see him, when Brendan had forbidden him from doing the same, filled him with despair.

He barely ate, and as soon as the meal was over he said he had to go.

Eileen followed him to the door.

"Was it worth it?" she asked, quiet and intense. "Betraying me? Betraying my boys?"

Macca couldn't look at her.

"Well, Macca?" she asked again.

"Yes." He met her gaze just for a second. "He was worth it."

:::::::

Stephen Hay was a good barman. He was an awkward, argumentative little fucker, hardly employee of the month, but with the punters he was all charm and smiles and happy-to-help. Brendan often watched him from the office doorway or from the other end of the bar; occasionally Stephen caught him looking, and Brendan would harden his glare, leaving the poor lad flustered and wondering what he'd done wrong this time. He wasn't doing anything wrong, though; he did as he was told. Moaned about it, usually, but did it, whether it was shifting crates or cleaning up or running to the cash-and-carry. Brendan knew he was giving him more tasks to do than the others, but it gave him an excuse to talk to the boy, even if it meant putting up with his grumbling.

Flirting with the customers was part of the job for the bar staff, and Stephen was good at it, mainly because he didn't know he was doing it. Girls seemed to like him: it was the boyishness, Brendan supposed, which made him seem safe and unthreatening. Whatever floats your boat. It was fine, seeing him flirt, but less fine was his relationship with Amy. She sometimes dropped in to see him, and the way they were together, laughing and squabbling and _close_, made Brendan think that he'd misjudged things and would never be able to have him.

He was lying awake in the early hours, wondering where to go from here, when his phone buzzed. It was a text from Macca. Things had been so simple back in Belfast, with Macca always ready for him and knowing what he wanted and giving it to him unselfishly; Brendan hadn't appreciated it at the time.

:::::::

What Eileen had said at the weekend, about going to see Brendan, played on Macca's mind and he had hardly slept in the few nights since.

It was after one o'clock in the morning. He picked up his mobile and wrote a message to Brendan.

# _Cant sleep. How about u? xx_

A few minutes went by. No answer: Macca hadn't really expected one. He pulled the cover up to his chin and snuggled down. Then his phone beeped, and he was wide awake.

# _Me neither_

God. Quickly, he typed another message and pressed _send_:

# _Wish I was with u now xx_

He began to wish he'd left the kisses off when there was no response, but then Brendan's text came through:

# _What if you were?_

Okay. Keep it casual.

# _What u mean?_

In a few seconds the reply came:

# _If you were here what would you do?_

# _Strip for u_. Macca hesitated, then sent it.

# _And then?_ came back from Brendan.

# _Kiss u_. Too soft? Oh well, here goes. _Send_.

# _My tongue in your mouth_

Fucking hell. # _Your hand round my throat_

Nothing came back. Macca worried that he'd said the wrong thing, made Brendan feel that he was accusing him – or that he knew him too well. Then his phone sounded again, making him jump.

# _My fingers in you_

Macca's breathing quickened; he lay on his side and drew his knees up and slid a hand into his boxers, grasping his stiffening cock. Then he texted, # _My legs round yr neck_

# _Say it_

Macca made him wait, and Brendan texted again, # _Say it_

# _Fuck me_

# _Fucking you_

# _Harder_

# _Holding you down_

# _Harder_

Macca waited for a reply, and tried to hold on. Then from Brendan:

# _Say my name_

# _Screaming your name_

Macca came into his hand, and lay panting, wondering if Brendan was doing the same. He waited perhaps ten minutes, then texted, # _Night xx_

# _Night_

:::::::

Brendan got up to clean himself, then went back to bed.

The limbs that he had imagined embracing him, were long and golden. The voice that he'd thought of crying his name hadn't had a Belfast accent, but a Manchester one. The eyes that in his mind had looked up at him, desperate with wanting him, weren't brown. They were long-lashed and blue.


	5. Chapter 5

As Stephen's attitude towards him began to soften, Brendan sensed that his tactics were working. He'd started to single the lad out with the odd bit of praise in front of customers; he'd share jokes with him, or rib him in a way that made Stephen realise that he was noticed.

Usually, Stephen rushed off as soon as he finished work, but Brendan chose a day when the club was quiet, and went and sat at the bar a few minutes before the early shift was due to finish.

"Get me a beer, Stephen, there's a good lad."

Stephen got a bottle from the fridge, opened it and put it down in front of his boss.

"You gonna pay for that?" Stephen was trying to look as if he meant it, Brendan could tell, but he was being cheeky and his eyes gave him away.

"Funny aren't you?" he said, and gave his barman a fleeting smile.

"No, I'm dead serious, me. That's Cheryl's profits you're drinking."

"If you have one yourself, will that keep you quiet?"

"What, now? Like, with you?"

"Yeah. Your work here is done, now that the dynamic duo's arrived." He nodded at Jacqui and Rhys as they sloped into position behind the bar for the evening, then turned back to Stephen. "If you want to, that is."

Brendan curled his fingers around his beer bottle and, looking Stephen in the eyes, he licked a drop of condensation from its neck before sliding it into his mouth and tipping it back. He watched the boy's eyes widen slightly, and thought he detected a blush. Good.

"Okay then," Stephen said. "If you're buying."

"Help yourself."

Stephen got himself a drink then came out from behind the bar and sat on the stool next to Brendan's.

They talked about their kids. Brendan knew it was a good subject to bring up: it made Stephen think they had something in common. He knew that only one of Amy's children was Stephen's own, and was genuinely admiring of the way it didn't seem to make any difference to how he felt about them – he was their dad, simple as that. Brendan didn't inquire too closely about the relationship with Amy and its ending, because he didn't want to push Stephen and have him clam up and be reluctant to talk to him in future. He'd found out a few things, rumours mainly, from various people, and from what he gathered, the lad had had an eventful and difficult life. This had made him tough, but vulnerable too. Brendan recognised the signs.

:::::::

For the first time since Brendan left him, Macca was feeling a glimmer of optimism.

He'd had no luck in finding work: he'd come close a couple of times, but his last boss was refusing to give him a reference since Eileen had told him that Macca had stolen from her. And all the casual jobs were going to students going back to college after the summer, who needed to pay their way through their courses and would work cheap. But Macca's dole had been sorted out and his housing benefit had come through at last, so at least his rent was up to date again.

That unexpected session of sex-texting with Brendan had given him hope. He was astonished that Brendan had initiated it, and surely that must mean something. Macca had been frightened that Brendan might have moved on already to some new boyfriend – after all, it had only taken him a few weeks to take up with Macca after leaving Vinnie – but he wouldn't have been up for exchanging dirty texts if that was the case, would he?

Trouble was, Brendan was so hard to read. Hard enough when he'd been there in Macca's flat, in Macca's bed; harder now that he was the other side of the Irish sea. Macca had got pretty good at detecting the ebb and flow of his lover's moods when they were together, scanning him as soon as he walked through the front door for clues to his state of mind. The way he moved; whether and how he spoke; if he headed straight for the Jameson's, or for the bedroom; the subtle changes in the muscles of his face: these were all indicators that Macca had used to assess what Brendan needed from him, and how dangerous he was likely to be. As the months had gone by, Macca had learned to check and re-check the signs almost without thinking about it. Brendan could change in a heartbeat, and you had to have your wits about you.

What Macca had never got a handle on was how Brendan felt about him. There'd been times, from quite early on, when he'd allowed himself to hope that the man might be falling for him a bit. It was the frequency with which Brendan wanted him, and the way he seemed jealous if ever the name of Macca's ex came up. And Brendan could be _loving_. Almost always, after they'd fucked, Macca would lie in Brendan's arms as they got their breath back, and as exhaustion sent him drifting off to sleep he would often feel Brendan kiss the top of his head and pull him closer. Brendan would get up as Macca slept and go for a shower, and sometimes Macca would pretend to be asleep still when he came back to the bedroom. He'd listen to him getting dressed, and wait to see what would happen next, because he wanted proof. Occasionally Brendan would just leave, but more often than not Macca would hear him approaching the bed, and feel the touch of his fingers in his hair or on his face; sometimes there'd even be a kiss, the lightest sensation of Brendan's moustache brushing his forehead or his cheek. This was proof. Not proof of love – Macca wasn't stupid – but proof of something. Gratitude? Remorse? _Affection_: that was what Macca chose to believe.

Even the sex, a few times among the many, could have been described as making love. Not to Brendan's face, unless you wanted to flick the switch that turned his fury on; but it was how it felt to Macca. Surprisingly, it had felt like that their first time together. Macca had expected it to be as aggressive as Brendan's kisses, so he was taken aback by the patience and care and sensitivity of the man. He could trace the birth of his feelings for Brendan to that day.

Another time, Brendan had shown up late at night, when Macca was already in bed. Macca guessed that he had had a difficult day, or was feeling unloved at home, but whatever the reason, Brendan had stripped off quickly and wordlessly and got into bed and pulled him into an embrace that had felt full of need. When he sat up to put on a condom, Macca had put his arms around him from behind, and Brendan had taken hold of one of his hands and kissed its palm. It _was_ making love, at times like that, whatever Brendan might say: more kissing than biting, more stroking than grabbing; slow and deep and generous.

Macca knew he'd be foolish to romanticise it. There'd been broken ribs and black eyes, punches and kicks and bruises and blood. Insults and contempt and abandonment. Sex that went beyond anything that he would have imagined himself consenting to before Brendan made him want it. It was no love story.

Macca still struggled to make sense of the whole affair, but the plain fact was, Brendan had made him feel more alive than he'd ever felt before, and the thought of never feeling like that again was unbearable.

:::::::

The time was almost ripe for Brendan to make a move on Stephen. The boy's hostility had given way to something like admiration. Emulation, even: Brendan had an old party trick where he'd get a pile of coins and flick them into an empty glass without looking. He'd learnt to do it as a little kid, when his mother would send him out to search for his dad who was out hours after he should have been home. Brendan would go looking in every pub in the area until he found him, and then his dad would make him wait until he'd finished his pint, or the next one, and tell him to do that coin-flicking thing while all his mates stood around, laughing and stinking of drink, and chucking him coins. Any that Brendan landed in the glass, he could keep, unless his dad took them first. Often one of the drinkers would put a hand over Brendan's eyes, to make sure he really was doing it without looking.

Sometimes though, Brendan didn't find his dad at all, and his mum would tell him how useless he was. Then when his dad appeared a day or two later there'd be a screaming row, and Brendan would cover his ears to block it out.

So, the party trick: he was standing behind the upstairs bar going through the order books, absently flicking coins into a glass. He went out onto the balcony for a minute to take a call on his mobile, and as he came back inside he saw Stephen. The lad was flicking coins into a glass, or trying to, and when he succeeded he gave a triumphant "Yes!" and stroked an imaginary moustache.

Brendan knew he had him then.

He was feeling his way to his next move later that day, giving the boy a few quid to work into his lunch hour, when Stephen nodded towards someone who was coming up the stairs. Brendan turned to look. It was Eileen.


	6. Chapter 6

Since leaving Belfast when his marriage collapsed, Brendan had returned once, a few weeks ago. The thought of going back there had terrified him – Eileen had assured him on the phone that she hadn't told anyone the real reason for their separation, and he was fairly confident that Macca would continue to be discreet, but still he felt from the moment he drove off the overnight ferry that there were eyes on him, and whispers about him. The fear was outweighed, though, by his need to see his sons.

He went straight to the house. It was early; Eileen wasn't dressed when she opened the door to him, and she pulled her dressing gown around herself as if he were some stranger. She made them a cup of tea. Their conversation was stilted, Brendan praying that she wouldn't want to talk about what he'd done with Macca and the rest. And she didn't: Eileen didn't seem to want any more details than she already knew, and was more concerned with managing life in the form it had now taken. They talked about the kids. Brendan had started sending money home as soon as he'd begun to make some, and had brought some cash with him now which his wife readily took.

They were running out of non-contentious things to say when the boys got out of bed and came downstairs. Padraig ran straight to his father; Declan hesitated, then came to Brendan too, and as he hugged both his boys he had to fight to disguise his emotions. He saw Eileen looking at him with compassion, which astonished him.

He took the kids out of the city that morning, partly to give them a good day out, and partly to avoid running into anyone he knew. Then in the evening, when he'd driven them home and it was time to go, he held them so tightly that Eileen put a hand on his arm and said "Brendan. Brendan!" to make him aware he might hurt them. As he left to get the late ferry home, she said to him, "You're still their dad, Bren, no matter what you've done."

:::::::

Speaking to his wife on the phone had been a little easier since then, now that her hatred seemed to have been replaced by something like sorrow.

Seeing her walking up the stairs in Chez Chez, though, was another matter. He'd managed so far to keep his Belfast life separate from the new one he was building here. There was a degree of crossover – Cheryl, of course, and Malachy – but it was manageable. Brendan knew it was possible that either of them would hear from someone back home some piece of gossip, but Cheryl tended to believe Brendan over anyone else, and Malachy was a known enemy whom he could dismiss as such. Eileen's arrival was different. She knew Brendan's weakness, and it gave her power.

She'd come for money, it turned out, so that Declan could see a private specialist to try to sort out what was wrong with him. Eileen seemed the same as she'd been in Belfast that day he'd visited them all: not looking for revenge nor wanting to hurt him. Maybe Brendan's fears were exaggerated.

He began to put a plan in place to get together the money she needed, ringing Carmel to get her to join him on another drugs trip to Spain.

Stephen had overheard him and Eileen talking in the bar about Declan's illness. Brendan hadn't realised he'd been eavesdropping until the lad told him he was sorry to hear about it; Brendan was taken aback, and tried to remember if Eileen had said anything else in that conversation, anything damaging. He didn't think she had, but he'd have to watch this boy; he was nosy, and somehow knew too that Brendan was going to Barcelona again. So, the _Sorry to hear about your son_ was followed by accusations about drugs and endangering Carmel, and what a bad man Brendan must be. Brendan had thought he was getting to the point where Stephen was open to being seduced, but it seemed he was wrong: the boy still saw him as some kind of evil low-life. Brendan reverted to treating him like any other member of staff, but with an added layer of contempt. In any case, with Eileen around, any sign of interest in this lad from Brendan and she might draw conclusions. And if she went home and sought out Macca to tell him that he'd been replaced, even Macca might not feel so loyal any more.

:::::::

The ceasefire with Eileen didn't last long. Her gratitude when Brendan promised her the money for Declan gave way almost immediately to impatience, and she was on Brendan's back constantly. She came to him as he sat in the office, standing at the open door and giving vent about lies and broken promises; he felt cornered and his fingers itched to shut her up. That was the trouble with women: you couldn't hit them. They could taunt you and push you and belittle you as much as they wanted, and all you could do was retreat, and turn your anger elsewhere.

Their years of marriage had taught Eileen that her husband would never lay a finger on her, and it gave her an advantage. With a man, it was simple, you could fight out the balance of power between you. With a woman, the game was rigged. And in return, what did you get? Not sex, at least not the kind you needed. A woman's body was alien, unfathomable and vulnerable, so there could be no unleashing of your hidden self, no satisfying of your appetites.

What you got from a woman was children, and confirmation to the world and to yourself that you were normal. That was the bargain you had to strike.

As Eileen stood in the office doorway, spitting her bitterness, Brendan became aware that Stephen was just outside. Was he listening again? Brendan screamed at him to get lost. Shit. Another nail in the coffin of his chances of having this boy, and another clue that Eileen might pick up on about his interest. His former interest. Shit.

Stephen looked shocked at Brendan's anger, and disappeared. Brendan fought to compose himself. Eileen came out with some line about love turning to hate, which stung him like a slap across the face. They were both silent for a moment, then Brendan told her to come in and shut the door so they could talk properly. Privately. He needed to know that she wasn't going to say anything stupid to anyone.

"Nice little set-up you've got here," she said. Perhaps she was regretting being so harsh.

"It's early days. Word's getting around, though, so business is building up."

"So you'll start making some proper money then, will you?"

Brendan clenched his fists under the desk, his knuckles whitening: back to the bloody money.

"I've been sending you what I can, sweetheart. And I've said I'll get the money for Declan, so will you just - "

"I'm sorry, Brendan, I'm not having a go. I'm just worried, you know?"

"I won't let you... I won't let the boys down, okay?"

Eileen raised an eyebrow. Brendan winced: he _had_ let his sons down, by fucking around and getting caught, and by running away instead of manning up and staying in Belfast to be near them.

"Bit late for that," Eileen said inevitably. They were both silent again, then she added, "I saw him last week, by the way."

"Who?" Brendan felt sweat forming under his arms.

"Who d'you think? Your boyfriend."

"Eileen - "

"Yeah, it was great. I was round at mum's with the kids and he showed up. You should have been there, Brendan, we could've played happy families."

Brendan didn't know Macca had seen Eileen: he'd told him not to. The little bastard could have warned him. He felt sick with the thought of what the boy might have said to Eileen. He might have told her how long they'd been fucking, and how often, and even about Vinnie – the little Macca knew about that affair was more than enough. Eileen had no idea about these things, and Brendan wanted it to stay that way. He waited for her to say whatever it was that she was getting at.

"You haven't spoken to him?" she asked. "Since that day I... found you?"

Spoken to him? Eileen didn't know, Brendan had gone to see Macca twice after that: once, to tell him he was leaving Belfast, when they'd had one last angry fuck; and once, to say goodbye. And yes, there'd been the odd phone call and yes, there'd been some texts since then.

"No," he said.

"Are you seeing anyone now?"

"No! No. Eileen, we're not even divorced, I'm hardly gonna start looking for a girlfriend now, am I?"

Eileen looked at him, and he saw that she was incredulous. It took him a minute to work out what she was thinking. Fuck. Fuck, what did she think he was?

She stood up.

"You know what, Brendan? You're so used to telling lies, you're even lying to yourself now. I'll come back later for that money."

Brendan watched her go, then got up from behind the desk and shut the door; he leaned against it with his eyes shut.

Then he picked up his phone and called Macca.

:::::::

Macca was at home when his phone rang. He knew it was Brendan without looking at the screen, because he'd assigned him his own ringtone, the theme tune from True Blood.

"Brendan?"

"Anything you want to tell me?" Brendan's voice was icy.

"I don't... What is it, Bren? What's wrong?"

"Don't bullshit me, Macca. You went to see Eileen."

"What? No, I didn't go to see her. I went to see my nan, and Eileen was there, that's all."

"Splitting hairs. What have you been telling her?"

Macca was puzzled. He knew Eileen was over in England to see Brendan, and he wondered what she could possibly have said to make him suspicious.

"Brendan, we hardly said a word to each other, I swear. I got out as quick as I could. I didn't talk about you. I didn't. I wouldn't do that."

It seemed like for ever before Brendan spoke again.

"Okay. Okay, good. Good lad." Brendan sounded softer now. Tired. "Just, anything like that, you tell me, son, okay? I don't like surprises."

"I'm sorry, Brendan, I didn't think. I never meant to make you - "

"I know."

"Are you alright, Bren?"

"Me? Yeah, I'm always alright."

Macca thought he sounded anything but.

"I'm worried about you. You sound..." Macca couldn't tell him he sounded paranoid, unstable, defeated. "You sound like you're under pressure."

"Nothing I can't handle."

Macca visualised Brendan's face assuming its protective mask. He longed to be able to reach out to him, and by taking him in his hands and in his mouth, take some of the stress away.

"I could come over, Brendan, if you want me to."

"No." Brendan had changed again, his voice dark with menace. "You won't come here, ever. You hear me? If you ever, ever come here you'll regret it, I promise you. D'you think I'm joking, Macca, do you?"

"No. I'm sorry, I was only trying..." His words died away as he realised Brendan had cut off the call.

That man. He was a hundred and fifty miles away, but still Macca's skin had turned clammy with fear and his heart raced. He felt a wave of familiar confusion as he registered the heat in his cock. The pounding in his chest was terror, yes, but desire too, and love.


	7. Chapter 7

Eileen was seeing someone else.

She'd been nervous about confessing it to Brendan, he could tell – and rightly so: Michael Donovan, for fucksake. He knew him vaguely, and looking back, it was obvious the guy had been sniffing around Eileen for years, waiting for his chance. Jesus, it hadn't taken her long, had it? They'd only been separated a couple of months, and she'd got a new man in her bed already. The thought made him feel sick to his stomach: Brendan was the only lover she'd had until now, and she was bound to compare them.

When she told him the news, over a civilised cup of tea in Chez Chez, she said as much: it was _different_ with Michael, and he made her different too. Yeah, bet your life. Michael fucking Donovan was just the kind of man it was _safe_ for a woman to have sex with. He wouldn't have to hold back because there was nothing _to_ hold back, his desires would be _appropriate_, he wouldn't need to fear doing her damage because there was no life force in him. He wouldn't have the balls you needed to fuck a man, someone who could square up to you and give as good as he got. Pusillanimous prick.

Brendan got on with his plan to obtain the money that his wife had come for. The sooner she was away from here, the better; he didn't trust her not to say something to Cheryl about the Macca thing, not any more.

He went to see Carmel in the salon where she had a part-time job. As she was due to meet him straight from work so they could head off to the airport, he knew she would have her luggage there with her. He had to listen to her mind-numbing chatter while he waited for an opportunity to slip his bundle of cash into her bag. It was all the money he could muster: he would complete the deal in Barcelona, Carmel would, like last time, unwittingly carry the cocaine back when they flew home the day after tomorrow, and he had a buyer waiting. It was risky, but the profit would be huge and Eileen would be out of his hair. And Declan would get his treatment, which was the whole point. It was always about his boys.

Once he'd managed to stash the money, Brendan escaped the women at the salon and went back to the club. It was only a few minutes later when Stephen put his head round the door of the office.

"Here, Brendan, have you heard what's happened?"

"Enlighten me."

Stephen frowned at that, then explained that a customer had just come in and said there'd been a fire in Evissa, something about a candle falling into someone's bag and – Brendan didn't wait to hear any more, but shoved the boy out of the way and ran the short distance from the club back to the salon. And yes, of course it was Carmel's bag that had caught light, and yes, of course all that remained of Brendan's cash was charred fragments. He launched into a verbal assault on Carmel, grasping for the most vicious truths he could think of about her ignorance and his contempt for her. He wanted her to know that she'd been nothing to him, less than nothing: how could a woman – a woman like her – be anything else?

He'd been only vaguely aware that for some reason Stephen had followed him from Chez Chez, but now he registered him saying, "That's enough," and Brendan knew he needed to leave before his anger drove him to something worse than shouting in Carmel's face. He wanted to knock Stephen out for his presumption; but instead, Brendan listened to him, and left.

:::::::

Later, Brendan was alone in the upstairs bar, staring into his third whiskey, attempting to make his problems seem further away. Stephen came up the stairs and stood beside him. You had to admire this kid's nerve; you'd think seeing Brendan so unhinged back there in Evissa would have freaked him out. Instead, here he was, telling him off about Carmel again – but more in sorrow than in anger this time, and with the recognition that desperate men will do desperate things when it's for their children's sakes.

Then Stephen said the exact words that Macca had said to Brendan on the phone this morning. _I'm worried about you_. What was it with these boys? Did they think he was that weak? Or was it something in them, something they had that made them able and willing to look inside his armour? Brendan couldn't understand it, nor did he want to. More whiskey. Whiskey was easier.

:::::::

Stephen was right about one thing: what desperate men will do.

The trip to Spain was off, as Brendan now had no money with which to pay the supplier. Eileen was on at him again the next day, suggesting he should borrow from Cheryl. He wouldn't do that: even if she had enough liquid cash, which he'd seen no sign of, he couldn't stand the thought of being in debt to his little sister. So his options had narrowed to two, as far as he could see.

First, he phoned Danny Houston. He didn't ask for a loan, because being in hock to him was a place no-one would want to be; he just asked for his share of the next trip, which Houston could easily take out of Brendan's half of the profit they would make.

"I'd love to help, Brendan, you know me, but you seem to be under the misapprehension that I'm a bank manager."

Sarcastic bastard. Brendan would have hung up on him, if Houston hadn't beaten him to it.

His second and final option, then, was to steal the club's takings. The thought filled him with guilt, but it would be okay, the club was insured against theft – at least it had been in August, because Cheryl had got back all the money he'd stolen from the safe. What cut him up, though, was how upset she would be. Desperate men.

Looking back after it all went wrong, Brendan struggled to work out whether it had been worth it. There'd been some mix-up so instead of Rhys leaving the club with the takings, it was Cheryl; and it was Cheryl who crashed to the ground unconscious when Brendan hit her, not realising until it was too late that it was his sister. It was Cheryl who ended up in hospital.

Brendan took the money anyway.

He handed over to Eileen next day the amount she had asked him for, and they parted on fairly good terms. This treatment for Declan better work; Brendan might just be able to look at himself in the mirror again if it hadn't all been for nothing.

Certainly, it had set things back again with Stephen, who apparently suspected him of the theft of the money. Was there anything that boy wouldn't blame Brendan for? He was right about it – he usually was – but even so, it made Brendan frustrated that he was viewed in this way. Frustrating in more ways than one: when he got up close to this lad, close enough to see the fine down on his face and to feel his breath, it was only to intimidate him and lay down the law; when what he wanted to do was to throw him onto the nearest surface and find out if the reality of Stephen's body matched the version that he saw when he shut his eyes at night.

:::::::

"Is Eileen back from England yet, nan?" Macca asked on the phone, as casually as he could manage. He knew that the possibility that Eileen and Brendan had got back together was remote, but he couldn't help worrying. Eileen had taken Brendan back when they'd split up in the past, although as far as Macca knew, those times were about trouble with the police rather than sex – and certainly not sex with her nephew.

"Yes, love," his nan said, "She's just back. I love those boys of hers, but I can't say I wasn't glad when she picked them up."

"I bet. So, how did it go with her Brendan?"

"Well, put it this way, Eileen got what she went for."

"Yeah?" Macca waited for details, but none came. "What was that, then?"

"Didn't she tell you, love? It was money for their Declan's doctors she went for."

"Oh, right. So... they're not gonna try to make a go of things then?"

"Ha! If she lets that man back in her house after what he's done, she'll have me to answer to. If Brendan Brady wants to take up with some tart, he doesn't deserve my Eileen."

Macca flinched. So that was still the story was it? Another woman. He felt strangely hurt. He knew that Brendan feared anyone finding out that he was gay, but once Eileen knew, Macca had hoped there would be a kind of ripple effect, and eventually the right people would know and not care, so that Brendan might just accept himself enough to have him back. But now that he knew that Eileen was colluding in Brendan's secrecy, Macca could see how naïve he'd been to hold on to even such a fragile hope.

He felt as if he was being written out of his own history. A whole year of his life, the year in which he had been most alive, had gone by without any witness but Brendan - and Eileen, of course, at the end, but she had no idea about how it was and what it meant, and in any case she wouldn't care. Why should she? Brendan should, though. Macca knew that the love in their relationship had only gone in one direction, but Brendan had _wanted_ him, there was no doubt about it. Needed him, even: Brendan's body had told him that, time after time, with its ferocious hunger.

:::::::

Brendan tried another change of strategy with Stephen: talking. He asked him what was on his mind, planning to remind him that they had something in common. He told him quietly at the bar that the money he'd given Eileen had come from selling his wedding ring and not, as he knew Stephen believed, from mugging Cheryl. Then he threw in the convincer, about how everything he ever did was for his sons, and it worked: _I'm the same_, Stephen said. Job done.

And then... and then Brendan began to explain that he wasn't the villain that people – Stephen – believed him to be.

Stephen was on duty, but there was no-one about, and they had a drink together. Brendan told him to have what he liked, and Stephen poured Brendan his usual whiskey and the same for himself, even though it was obvious he wasn't used to it and it made his eyes water. Brendan found himself telling this boy how he'd been sidetracked from his early ambitions by the realities of marriage and children, and how he'd drifted into crime to make ends meet. This wasn't part of the plan: say enough to get Stephen back onside, yes, but leave it there, don't go getting into really personal stuff, the stuff you never spoke about. Fuck. Must be the whiskey.


	8. Chapter 8

Cool down on the Stephen situation.

There was no hurry, and if he let his progress – or lack of – play on his mind like it had been doing, he'd be conceding that the lad had power. It was going to happen, later if not sooner: Brendan was going to have him. Just sit back a bit. Be _friendly_ sometimes. Softly, softly.

:::::::

Stephen told him he believed him: he believed that Brendan hadn't been the one who mugged Cheryl. Good. Their little chats had done the trick, and Brendan was relieved to be sure of that before his sister came out of hospital. He didn't want Stephen raising his suspicions with her, or she might feel obliged to sack him, as she'd backed up Brendan's firing of Malachy over the same thing. Couldn't have Stephen getting sacked; Brendan wanted to keep him where he could see him.

So, Stephen believed him: one step forward. Then Stephen asked if his mate Ray could try out as a DJ in the club. Only, _Rae_ was a girl: one step back.

Brendan had only just got used to the idea of Amy, for fucksake. He'd had a conversation about her with Stephen while Eileen was over from Belfast.

"So, you and Eileen, it must be a bit funny having her around," the boy had ventured.

"Funny. Yeah. Yeah, it cracks me up."

"I don't mean _funny_. I mean, like, now you're not together any more, it must be well weird seeing her again."

"Like you and Amy, you mean?" Brendan was curious about the nature of their relationship, living together with their kids but insisting they weren't a couple any more.

"Me and Ames, that's different. We're mates, aren't we. Maybe you and your missus can be mates, you know, for the kids."

Brendan had ignored the last part: Stephen didn't have a clue.

"That's all it is with Amy, is it? Mates? Not tempted to try again for old times' sake? She's a lovely girl."

"No." Stephen had appeared resolute. "We wouldn't wanna ruin it."

Brendan's mind had been put at rest by that. Stephen seemed certain, for whatever reasons, that there was no getting back with his ex. But now, here was this other girl, Rae, another low-rent young blonde, and this one was definitely getting Stephen's hormones going. Jesus, he was nearly twenty-one, shouldn't he be over this teenage behaviour by now?

Still, Brendan was quite relaxed about it. It shouldn't be too hard to put them off each other.

Stephen tried to kid Brendan that asking for an audition for Rae had nothing to do with making a move on her, but the boy was transparent. He was practically salivating. Brendan humoured him though, gave the girl a shot at it. She wasn't bad, really, but Brendan stopped her and rubbished her. The way she then turned on Brendan, bolshy and petulant, made him think she'd be a good match for Stephen if he hadn't wanted the lad for himself. A right little pair of mouthy dirty-blondes they'd make.

She stormed out. Brendan had done Stephen a favour, she was just using him to try to get a gig. The boy didn't see it that way though – Brendan was treated to that frown and that pout. Sexy little fucker.

"You can do better," he told Stephen, and it was true. A girl like that wasn't what a boy like this needed.

Sorted.

Except it was far from sorted. Next day, Stephen appeared in a shirt Brendan hadn't seen before. He teased him about it – it wouldn't be what Brendan would choose to dress him in, and it was fun winding him up and seeing all the confusion and affront written on his face. He was so easy to read. He did look smart, though, compared with usual; like he'd made the effort. But it was all for Rae.

You had to give the lad credit, somehow managing to talk her round after yesterday's humiliation.

Brendan was on edge until Stephen got back from his hot date for his next shift. The boy was buzzing. Brendan tried to tell him again that he was being taken advantage of, but he knew there was no point. Stephen was _happy_. Brendan watched him as he worked, he never stopped smiling.

It had to be sorted, but properly this time. Brendan called Veronica; she was no friend, but in all the years he'd known her she'd always been willing to do whatever he needed doing if the price was right, and she agreed again, even though Brendan had dumped her in the shit last time he'd hired her. It was a simple plan that he explained to her: she would come into the club and make doe-eyes at Stephen, and he would fall for it because he was needy and open to flattery. Brendan would find Rae, talk her into coming back for another shot at a DJ slot, let her walk in on Veronica and Stephen, and that would be it. And it worked like a dream: goodbye, Rae.

Only later, Stephen spotted Brendan paying Veronica for a job well done. Always bloody listening to things that didn't concern him, that boy.

"Why are you trying to destroy me and Rae?" Angry. Pouting.

"I don't have to explain myself to the staff."

"But this isn't work, Brendan, this is nothing to do with you." Stephen followed Brendan up the stairs. Brendan turned wearily to look at him.

"You'll understand when you're older, _kid_, girls like that, they're no good for you."

"I don't get it."

"My point, Stephen. Run along, there's a good lad."

:::::::

In the past few days, Macca had tried to get work in a burger place, two pubs, a bookshop, a shoe shop and a printers. Mostly, they'd turned him down flat. One or two had given him an application form to fill in, in case any jobs came up in the future.

He was pissed off.

A bunch of mates were going out and asked him along. Might be a good idea, drown his sorrows; except he didn't have enough spare money to pay his way.

That was the clincher. Nothing had gone his way since Brendan had left him. He was scared to see his family in case Eileen had prejudiced them against him. Too skint to go out much, and when he did, the guys he met were nothing compared to the one he was in love with, and only served to remind him of what he had lost. What was there to keep him here? Brendan had told him more than once not to follow him, but wouldn't he change his mind once they saw each other? And if not, what was the worst that could happen? Macca would just have to come home again, but at least he would have tried, and he didn't know how he would live with himself if he just gave up without a fight.

He was prepared to face Brendan's anger; he'd survived it before. More frightening was when Brendan's blue eyes were like ice, and he meted out punishment in cold blood when he'd had time to brood on some line you'd crossed or rule you'd broken. The memory made Macca shudder. But then he'd have to seduce you again: he seemed to relish the challenge of it. At first you would think, _No way_, and resist. Then the lightest touch of his hand on your face would send a rush of heat to your cock, and the air between you would crackle with the promise of him wanting you, and your bruises would become the price you had to pay, and you'd remember you belonged to him and wonder how you'd ever thought otherwise.

Macca made sure his bills and rent were up to date, and packed a bag.

:::::::

They were having money problems, Stephen and Amy. Brendan had run into her, and for some reason she'd told him about how her student loan was delayed so she was going to have to give up on her college course and get a job instead. Her eyes were wide and sad and brave; there was a fragile prettiness about her. Christ, that little boy of theirs would be a heartbreaker when he grew up.

He decided to lend them some money. If someone had done the same for him and Eileen, when they were hardly more than kids themselves and struggling with boys of their own, maybe he wouldn't have got into some of the things he'd done; maybe he wouldn't have put his ambitions aside. And Stephen was still chasing Rae, even after everything Brendan had done to put them off each other, so perhaps this loan would make the lad see that his priorities should be Amy and their children, not that little scrubber.

When he found Stephen texting Rae again, and again had to tell him off, the lad stood up for himself: _Who do you think you are?_ Insolent little sod. Why couldn't he see that Brendan was trying to protect him? They stood staring each other out, snarling their argument, their faces inches apart. Brendan felt a desperate need to touch him. No, to hit him. To hit him. But he contained himself, and handed him the money, and told him what it was for: to do right by Amy and the kids.

He touched the boy's face. He couldn't not. Just for a second; then retreated into the office, shutting the door in his face. _I like you, Stephen._ Had he really just said that?

:::::::

Macca was at the ferry port. He'd got his ticket – one-way – with the help of some money from his mum and dad, and was waiting to board.

He weighed up whether it would be better to show up in Chester without warning, or to phone Brendan to tell him he was on his way. He thought back to the last time they'd spoken. _I don't like surprises_, Brendan had said; so, that decided it.

His hands shook slightly as he keyed in the number.

"Macca? Something happened?" Brendan's voice made Macca's pulse quicken as usual.

"No, Bren, nothing. Nothing's happened. I just thought I better let you know, I'm coming over."

"What?"

"Yeah, I'm at the ferry port now, I'm getting the night crossing."

"No you're not. What have I told you? You can't - "

"It's okay, Brendan, I just want a change, see if I can pick up some work, you know?" _Don't tell him you miss him. Don't tell him you love him_. "And we can catch up."

"Not here. Not here."

"Where's the harm, Bren?"

"You've no idea. Coming here would - "

"I'm not gonna - "

"Listen - "

"Brendan!" Macca needed him to know he wasn't out to cause trouble.

"Listen. Don't come here - "

"You don't have to worry, I'd never - "

"Don't come here or I will - "

Macca ended the call, scared to hear the rest of the threat. Brendan sounded crazy. He couldn't stay like that though, could he? Not once he'd slept on it and got used to the idea.


	9. Chapter 9

Macca couldn't afford to have a cabin for the overnight sailing from Belfast to Liverpool, but as there weren't many people in the seating area, he was able to lie down there. It wasn't uncomfortable, but he slept only fitfully. He had never hung up the phone on Brendan before, and the fact that Brendan hadn't tried to call him back since he did it, felt ominous; he lay worrying about how he would be greeted when they were finally reunited.

Usually, Macca had no trouble sleeping. Brendan used to tease him about it: they'd both tended to drift into sleep after they'd fucked, but whereas Brendan's sleep would be just a brief recovery, Macca's would often be deep and heavy, whatever time of day or night it happened to be. If Brendan wanted Round Two, he had the job of waking Macca up first.

Being awoken by Brendan Brady was amazing. Macca might become aware of the hairs of a moustache brushing his ear, a tongue flicking at its lobe, teeth grazing it. Then a murmur, so growly and low that he almost felt rather than heard it: _Wake up, you lazy little bastard, d'you think I've got all day?_ Or Brendan's mouth would get to work on his neck and shoulder, and Macca would become conscious somewhere on the escalation from nuzzling and kissing to licking to sucking to nibbling. He would feign sleep then, waiting for the nibbling to become biting as Brendan lost patience, and would relish the thrill of pain as Brendan opened his mouth wide and bit hard into his skin.

Or his hand would be taken and wrapped firmly around Brendan's cock, which would become engorged and alive in his grasp.

However he was woken, as soon as Macca opened his eyes Brendan's fingers would ease into him, making him ready again. Knowing that Macca would already be sore, Brendan was inclined to be gentle the second time, but Macca would urge him not to be. He wanted the burning and bruising to stay with him every time his lover left, to remind him that he was wanted.

:::::::

Brendan couldn't believe that Macca was on his way. He hoped that the boy had heard enough of his warnings on the phone last night to change his mind; hoped that when Macca had hung up on him – insolent little shit – it was because he'd been scared into going back home, and not because he was determined to ignore Brendan's threats. Having ripped his phone to pieces after Macca ended the call, Brendan hadn't been able to call him back to check.

To make things worse, Stephen had somehow come along just at the right time to witness the conversation. Maybe not all of it – Brendan wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there – but certainly the end of it, and the breaking of his mobile. Brendan had screamed at him to get out of his sight, and Stephen had looked terrified. The lad must think he was some kind of psycho. Maybe he was right.

He needed to get away, thinking that if Macca arrived and couldn't find him, he might just give up and go home. He still hoped, though, that Macca would have thought better of it last night, and would not turn up at all.

A contact was due to bring a consignment into London, and Brendan liked to do this kind of deal in person, so he took the opportunity for a well-timed business trip. Knowing what time the ferry docked in Liverpool, Brendan made sure he was away from the village before Macca would have a chance to get there. He got a taxi into Chester, stopped off to buy a replacement phone and install his SIM card, then got the train down to Euston.

:::::::

It was mid-morning when Macca got off the bus at Hollyoaks village. It had been a long journey: eight hours on the ferry with little sleep, then a series of buses. But now, here he was.

He didn't know Cheryl's address – he assumed that was where Brendan was living – but he knew the name of her club and found it easily, and found her. She was standing outside, chatting to someone, and Macca waited until they were done and Cheryl was turning to go inside, before he caught her attention.

"Macca! What are you doing here? Come here, you." She beamed at him, and he dropped his bag as she enveloped him in a warm hug. He was just the right height for his face to be squashed into her breasts; it wasn't unpleasant, but he felt it was wasted on him. Eventually, he was allowed out for air.

"It was a spur of the moment thing, Chez. Thought I'd try a change of scene, you know, catch up with you. You and Brendan."

"Ah, it's good to see you, love. You gonna come in then? I've got this delivery to check in, but we can have a wee natter after that."

"To be honest I wouldn't mind getting something to eat first. I've been travelling since last night." Macca suddenly felt shaky at the thought that he might see Brendan any minute.

"Yes, of course, you poor thing. Let me take your bag though, Macca, I'll lock it away in the office so you're not lumbered."

Cheryl pointed Macca towards Relish, the local burger joint, and after another hug he went and got a late breakfast.

He felt calmer after some food and a coffee, but still he went for a walk around the village before finally gathering his courage and walking into Chez Chez. Cheryl greeted him again. It was very quiet – it was a nightclub, so that wasn't surprising at this time of day – and the only member of staff around was a lad called Rhys, who seemed nice enough. Cheryl told Macca to help himself to a drink, and he got one from the fridge behind the bar. He was opening the till to put the money in when there was a commotion, and before he could work out what was happening, he was being pushed to the floor and there was someone on top of him calling him a thief. They tussled for a moment, but Rhys dragged the guy off him, and Cheryl helped him up and explained who Macca was.

Macca recognised this boy Ste: as he'd left Relish he'd seen him take some money a customer had left on a table outside. He looked like trouble. Cute though.

:::::::

Cheryl and Macca sat down at the bar for a chat. She asked after Eileen, and Macca had to admit he hadn't seen her in a while; luckily Cheryl didn't ask why not. Ste was hanging around, and it was funny, he was keen to let Macca know that he'd met Eileen when she'd visited Brendan. Macca wondered if he somehow knew something.

It turned out Cheryl thought that it was Eileen who had had the affair which ended her marriage. God, so everyone in Belfast thought Brendan had had another woman, and everyone here thought Eileen had had another man. Once again, Macca's name had been left out of the story, which was a good thing; but he couldn't help feeling sidelined.

"I feel for Brendan," he said to Cheryl, then asked the question he'd been longing to ask: "He around?"

"No. He's away on business."

Cheryl's words were a relief, but a disappointment too. Just because he was nervous of seeing Brendan, it didn't mean he didn't want to.

Cheryl asked him why he hadn't let them know he was coming. Without thinking, Macca told her that he'd rung Brendan last night, but he immediately wished he'd kept his mouth shut because Ste chipped in again: he'd been there when Brendan was on the phone, so he must have heard how hostile he was. Macca dreaded Ste telling Cheryl what Brendan had been like, but it seemed that for now, letting Macca know that he knew, was enough for him.

He talked to Ste a bit later. Macca had persuaded Cheryl to give him a job – he couldn't believe that he was finally working again – and Ste was showing him the ropes. It turned out that Ste hadn't been nicking the money at the burger place, but taking it inside as he was mates with the owners. He was apparently a nice guy: he even offered to let Macca sleep on his sofa until he found somewhere to stay, and Macca accepted gratefully. Cheryl had offered too, but he thought if Brendan got back and found him not only working for him but living with him too, he would go crazy.

Something made Macca wonder if Ste had some kind of agenda in asking him to stay. He'd asked Macca what Brendan's problem had been, yelling at him down the phone to stop him coming, and when Macca told him it was just Brendan's way of toughening you up, Ste had seemed to know what he was talking about. Macca became alert for clues then that there was something going on between this barman and Brendan. The thought of it disturbed him: it hadn't occurred to him that the reason Brendan didn't want him here might be that he'd already replaced him.

He tried to look at it rationally. Ste was curious about Brendan, and eager to make it known that he wasn't just his employee but his mate too, but still, there was a guilelessness about this lad that made Macca sure he'd be able to tell if he was Brendan's secret lover. Anyway, Ste lived with a girl and their two kids, and Macca doubted if even Brendan could turn a straight bloke who had that kind of domesticated set-up. Not unless he really set his heart on it.

:::::::

The next night, Brendan concluded his business over a meal in Chinatown. It had gone well.

It was late, but he didn't feel like going back to his room in a cheap hotel off the Euston Road, so he walked up towards Covent Garden and went into one of the few pubs that wasn't yet a tourist trap. He liked big cities: you could disappear into them; people you met, you need never see again if you didn't want to. Village life was far trickier.

He bought his second whiskey and watched as a bunch of people piled into the pub. They must be dancers from the ballet, he thought, or from some musical, coming in to wind down after their night's work. The girls were slender, their faces clean and shiny like they'd just taken off their make-up. The boys were skinny too, their waists narrow, their stomachs almost concave, but their arses were rounded with muscle, and their thighs strained incongruously against the fabric of their jeans. They'd be freshly showered.

He'd had a dancer once, and he could still recall digging his fingers into the tight muscles of his belly as he gripped him from behind, and the hardness of his buttocks as he slammed and slammed against them. Nice lad. A Scouser, like Vinnie a few years later. But unlike Vinnie, he'd been easy to get. Getting Vinnie had taken patience and scheming and, when the time came, tenderness.

If he put his mind to it, Brendan knew he could get one of these lads to come back to his hotel. Might not even ask his name. It would be uncomplicated: he wouldn't have to play mindgames and overcome endless obstacles for the chance to get what he wanted.

He stood up, knocked back the last of his drink, and walked towards the dancers, then past them and out on to the street. Some prizes were only worth winning if you had to fight for them.

:::::::

Macca and Ste got back to Ste's place after the late shift on Macca's first full day at work.

"There's some beers in the fridge if you fancy it? I'm gonna have one." Ste spoke quietly: Amy must have gone to bed, and the children would be fast asleep at this time of night.

"Cheers, Ste."

They sat talking. Inevitably, Ste brought Brendan's name up.

"He'll be back tomorrow. D'you think he'll be alright with you, after, you know, what he said down the phone?"

"Nothing I can do about it if he's not. He's been mad at me before, so..."

"You known him a long time?"

Macca felt Ste's eyes boring into him.

"Yeah, years. First time I saw him, it was his wedding day. I was just a wee kid though. He doesn't remember me from then." Macca had been one of many nephews and nieces and cousins - all from Eileen's side of the family – tearing around the small church hall at the reception. He remembered his auntie, pretty and pregnant in her short, short dress, and this man she'd just married, tall and nervy and with a moustache that made him look older than his years. Brendan had rounded up the children for a game of football outside; Macca could see now that he'd done that to escape the reality of what he'd got himself into. He'd asked Brendan, when they were in bed once, if he remembered him among all the other kids. _Course not. Why would I?_

"So you must know him pretty well by now, then?"

Ste's question interrupted Macca's reverie.

"Better than most, yeah." He changed the subject. "You and Amy, you must've been together a while."

"Oh, we're not together. We was before, but now we're just mates." Ste looked awkward, and it was his turn to change the subject. "How about you, Macca. You got a girlfriend back home?"

"I had a fella til a couple of months back." Macca watched Ste carefully.

"Oh, right."

"That a problem?"

Ste looked affronted.

"Course not. No, it's just, I'd never have guessed."

Macca smiled.

"Yeah? Gay people can be right under your nose and you wouldn't know it." He stood up. "I'm gonna have a quick shower, Ste, if that's okay, then turn in. I'm knackered."

He was suddenly worried that the little he'd said to Ste was too much, and if Brendan ever got to hear about it, he'd be in trouble.


	10. Chapter 10

Macca was on the early shift the next day. It was the day Brendan was due back from his business trip, and he was nervous: he knew that he had done wrong by coming to England at all, but at least he could make sure he didn't compound his offence by antagonising Brendan even more. He wanted to be certain that when he saw his lover for the first time in ten weeks, he wouldn't screw things up, and so he gave himself a talking to.

So: don't come across as excited to see him. Play it cool, casual. Act like you're here for a change of scene, not because your life without him has been hollow. Don't make the first move: let him come to you – and there was no reason why Brendan wouldn't. Not straight away, maybe, but once he'd got over his anger and remembered how good you'd been together, how you'd always said yes, how you'd always done with him and let him do whatever he wanted, then surely he'd give up the bother of picking up Ste or anyone else. A boy in the hand...

Don't, whatever you do, tell him that you love him: you'd told him that before, and been battered for it. And don't tell him that he's in your head every hour of every day, and always will be. Because Brendan Brady would never understand a thing like that.

:::::::

Brendan rang Cheryl from the train that morning on his way back from London, to check that things had been okay at the club in his absence, and to let her know that he'd be there in a couple of hours. To his relief, she didn't mention Macca. If the boy had come looking for him, he'd certainly have gone to Cheryl; so it looked as if he'd listened to Brendan's warnings and decided to stay in Belfast like he'd told him. He was a good kid.

The rhythm of the train might have made Brendan dozy, but he was kept alert by the presence of the package of cocaine in his bag on the seat beside him. He looked out of the window, and thought about Stephen. Last time he'd seen him, he'd looked scared half to death when Brendan had yelled at him, after catching him eavesdropping on that phonecall with Macca. Brendan felt vaguely embarrassed that Stephen had seen him so out of control, when he'd been trying to get the boy to see him in a more positive light. He hoped that the money he'd given him for Amy would have softened him up a bit – as well as serving its main purpose, which was to make Stephen put his infatuation with Rae behind him.

Brendan really needed to get things moving with this lad. He hadn't had sex for... well, since that last time with Macca, when he'd given him a black eye then fucked him to say goodbye. And if he couldn't get Stephen soon, Christ, he'd have to get someone. He hated the thought of it though, of the kind of anonymous encounter he used to have before Vinnie, where the release of it barely compensated for the hangover of disgust.

:::::::

Cheryl was glowing.

"I can't wait to see Brendan's face when he sees you, love, he's gonna be made up!"

"You've not told him, then?" Macca wished she had, then Brendan would have had time to get used to the idea before he saw him.

"No, I wanted it to be a surprise. You know, he misses home so much – not that he'd tell you that, he always wants to look like the tough guy, but I'm his sister, and I _know_, it's like a _connection_ we have, I can tell what he's thinking, Brendan's like an open book to me - "

"He's not much of a one for surprises though, Chez," Macca interjected as she paused for breath.

"Ah, nonsense. Well, he'll like _this_ surprise, anyhow." She patted Macca's cheek. "A wee bit of home, aren't you?"

:::::::

An hour later, Macca walked into the upstairs bar and saw him.

Brendan was standing talking to Cheryl, facing away from Macca. He was wearing a dark grey suit that had a kind of sheen to it like the pelt of a panther. He looked taller than Macca remembered, his body lean, his shoulders broad. Macca could picture his back beneath the jacket, straight and smooth and strong; his powerful arms.

Cheryl was saying something to her brother. She'd obviously seen Macca come in, and was telling Brendan to close his eyes because she'd got something for him to make him feel at home. Macca willed her to shut up: couldn't she see how uncomfortable she was making Brendan? He hated to be made to look or feel foolish, and she was doing just that; and it wouldn't be Cheryl who got the blame – it never was. Macca knew it would be his fault.

She gestured to Macca, and he walked round to stand in front of Brendan. His white shirt was open at the neck; he looked as hot as hell. Fuck, Macca wanted him.

Cheryl told Brendan to open his eyes: "Surprised?"

"Yeah." Brendan smiled, but it was a performance for his sister. Macca could see that the real story was the shock and fury and accusation in his eyes.

"How's it going, Brendan?" Pleasantries. Jesus.

Brendan looked as if he wanted to kill him. Then he reached out to shake Macca's hand, something Brendan had never done before. Grasped his wrists as he pinned him to the bed, frequently. Grabbed his hand to put it where he wanted it, yes. Sucked his fingers a few times. But he'd never shaken his hand, and it was odd - and then Macca realised why he was doing it, as he felt Brendan's grip tighten until it felt as if the bones in his hand would break.

He carried on the conversation, told Brendan that Cheryl had given him a job. Brendan didn't let go. Macca breathed through the pain and looked him in the eye, knowing that if he showed any sign of weakness Brendan was likely to be merciless. Brendan only released him when Cheryl said she needed Macca downstairs.

"It's good to see you, Brendan," Macca said as he left with Cheryl.

"You too mate. I'll talk to you later, yeah?"

Mate? Whatever they were, they weren't mates.

Macca had a little while to think. He could tell – though Cheryl was somehow oblivious – that Brendan was furious with him for defying him and turning up. He tried to work out whether Brendan would consider that crushing his hand was punishment enough. It was unlikely: there was no actual damage. There'd be more, unless Macca played it very safe from now on. He decided to do what he'd planned for now, act like he really had come to England because he wanted a change. Maybe then, Brendan would stop worrying that he was here to cause trouble. Be casual, he reminded himself: Let him come to you.

:::::::

What the fucking hell was the little bastard after? And what was Cheryl doing, giving him a job?

Brendan sat in the office, trying to look through the books to get up to date with how the club had run in the three days he'd been away, but he couldn't focus. He felt sick, knowing what Macca knew about him: the boy knew what he was like, and what he liked; he'd seen him crying, for fucksake, when he'd found out Vinnie had died; he knew the truth about the ending of his marriage. It felt as if his past and present were heading for a collision, and he had let go of the controls.

Cheryl would believe him over Macca, he knew that, but gossip was pernicious. And Christ, what about Stephen? Macca was astute, and more than capable of figuring out that Brendan was working on the kid.

He gave up on the books, grabbed a magazine, and went and sat at the bar with a beer.

Cheryl had this idea that she wouldn't let go of, that all the staff – Brendan included – had to go to watch a play that afternoon at the student bar. Team bonding, she called it. Bollocks. There was no getting out of it; she made it clear to him again as he sat with his drink.

As she left, Macca appeared and took a seat next to him at the bar. Got cheeky, sarcastic: "You don't look that pleased to see me."

Threats hadn't worked, so Brendan tried a different tack, and asked him if he wanted money.

"You've got a very low opinion of me, Brendan. When did that happen?"

Brendan looked at him. It was a good question. What made him think Macca would want money from him? He never had before. Brendan had given him money now and again, sure, but it hadn't been to buy him off. He needed to stay rational about this: Macca had never betrayed him to anyone or given him any trouble; Brendan just needed to work out what he'd come for, and deal with it. The only thing he was sure of so far was that the stuff about wanting a change of scene was bullshit.

They were interrupted, and Brendan sent Macca away. He'd have to talk to him later.

:::::::

The play was in the SU Bar. Brendan sat with Cheryl, but was distracted by Macca and Stephen, who were drinking together at the bar. Every time he glanced at them, they were smiling and laughing. What the fuck were they talking about, the boy he used to want and the boy he wanted now?

:::::::

As soon as the applause started at the end of the performance, Macca bought a pint and took it outside to drink it. The play had been dire, and the best bit of the afternoon had been chatting with Ste before it started. He liked the guy: he'd gathered that Ste had had a bit of a tricky life, but there was a kind of innocence about him that was appealing. If Brendan was interested in him, he could see why; and Ste's eyes shone whenever Brendan's name came up. But it was a bit of a leap to imagine him being turned, let alone by someone like Brendan who would offer him nothing but secrecy and shame. No, Brendan would be too scared that his efforts would fail and that he'd end up being exposed, Macca was sure of it. He just needed to make Brendan see: Macca could give him everything he needed if he took him back.

His thoughts and his pint were interrupted by Brendan appearing at his shoulder.

"We need to talk. Not here. Walk with me." He was calm, quiet. He took the glass from Macca's hand and put it down, then led the way, off along the road.

It occurred to Macca that he'd never walked anywhere with Brendan before: hardly been out of doors with him, even, in the year of their affair. The two rooms of his flat had been their world, and seeing him today out in the open, it felt frighteningly impossible that what they'd had before could ever be recreated.

They couldn't converse as they walked, as Macca almost had to run to keep pace with Brendan's stride. They passed through an alleyway between two buildings, then skirted the fence that flanked the park, and went in through its gates. Brendan stopped when he got to a bench close to some trees, stood waiting for Macca to catch him up, then sat down. Macca sat beside him. Neither man spoke for a long minute.

"What are you doing here, Macca?" Brendan looked not at Macca, but into the distance.

"Like I said, Bren. Just wanted a change."

"Yeah. Yeah. Why _here_?"

"Cos I knew Cheryl was here." Macca swallowed. "And you."

He saw a muscle twitch in Brendan's cheek. There was silence again, until Macca broke it.

"I'm not after anything, Bren. I'm not. But, y'know, if you want me to - "

"Where you staying? With us?"

"No. With one of your barmen."

The muscle in Brendan's face flickered again.

"Which one?"

Shit. No point lying, Brendan would find out anyway.

"Ste."

Silence again.

"You talk to him?"

"No. Not about you, I wouldn't do that. Look, Brendan, Ste's a nice fella but... I'm here now."

Brendan looked at him for the first time. Smiled a strange, strained smile. Looked at Macca's lips. Stood up. Walked into a narrow pathway enclosed by trees on one side and the fence on the other. Turned back to Macca.

"Coming?"

It didn't feel safe, but this was Brendan: you didn't expect safety. Macca followed him. It was shadowy and still. They stood facing each other. Macca wasn't sure if he was meant to do something, but eventually, he did: he reached towards Brendan, and began to unbuckle his belt.

:::::::

He hadn't meant it to happen. He'd wanted to find out what the kid was here for, and make him go away, that was all. And then Macca told him he was staying with Stephen, and seemed to assume that he was interested in the boy. As if Macca knew what was in his head; as if Brendan was queer, like him.

Even when he walked into the darkness beneath the trees, he didn't have a plan. But then Macca made that move, and Brendan's left fist lashed out. The kid was quick, dodging back out of the way like he'd been expecting it. Brendan's knuckles just grazed his teeth, but with enough force to make his hand and Macca's mouth bleed.

"Jesus, Bren, you haven't changed."

Defiant little fucker. Brendan shoved him so that he crashed against the fence, and as he slid to the ground he aimed a kick at Macca's ribs, and heard them crack.

Brendan felt a rush of adrenalin and an urge to run, but he couldn't. What he'd done came into focus: Macca was curled up, shaking, his breath rapid and shallow.

"Come on, Macca. Come on, get up." Brendan tried to haul him to his feet, but the boy was in too much pain. "Fuck. Okay. Okay, where's your phone?"

Brendan searched him and found first his keys, which he pocketed, and then his mobile. He dialled 999, then when they answered, held the phone to Macca's ear. Macca managed to answer their questions. He said he'd been attacked. Fuck.

"They're coming, yeah?"

Macca nodded. Brendan paced for a minute, then lifted Macca so he was leaning back against the fence, and sat down beside him. His breathing sounded badly wrong.

"Won't be long now. Get you looked at. You'll be okay, son." He put his arm around him, and Macca nestled against his chest. "Good lad."

When he heard the sirens, Brendan carried Macca out into the open and sat him on the bench; he kissed the top of his head, and retreated out of sight until he saw that the ambulance crew had spotted the boy. Then he headed across the park to the far exit, and walked back to the club the long way round.


	11. Chapter 11

By the time Brendan got back to Chez Chez, Cheryl and the staff had re-opened the place after returning from their 'bonding' trip to the student play.

He went behind the bar to wash the blood off his hand. His own blood: the skin of his knuckles had split on contact with Macca's teeth; Macca's blood too, probably. Jacqui saw him, and asked what he had done. _Nothing_, he said, and she left it there – she was a smart girl, and knew when to keep her nose out.

He saw Cheryl, and told her that he was going to shoot off for the rest of the evening. And he told her that Macca had gone back to Ireland for some emergency that couldn't wait. Well, it might as well have been true, because as soon as the hospital patched him up, he'd be off home. He had to have got the message by now.

Then Brendan popped into the office and looked through the employee records to find Stephen's address. Stephen was at the club now for his shift, and Amy would be out celebrating her star turn in that godawful performance. Someone must be minding their kids, it was just a question of whether they were being looked after at home or elsewhere. Brendan hoped it was the latter, as he headed off to the council flats; if he found them at home, he'd have to think up some excuse for being there.

Stephen's place looked grim from the outside, a bit of a dumping ground, uncared-for. Brendan knocked on the door. There was no answer: good. He got out the keys that he'd found in Macca's pocket when he was looking for his phone to call the ambulance. He knew they weren't Macca's keys from Belfast, because he had a set of those himself and he'd have recognised them, so they must be a set Stephen had given him to use while Macca was staying with him. He was right, and he let himself in.

It was untidy, but it was the kind of mess that was almost inevitable when you had two small children in the house. It wasn't dirty, but it spoke of poverty. Everything was old: the furnishings, the décor, the kitchen equipment. It looked as though the only things that had been bought lately were the toys and clothes for Leah and Lucas.

Brendan felt a pang of recognition. When he and Eileen had first got married, they had a poky one-bedroom flat furnished with second hand tat. The only new possession they had was the cot that stood in a corner of the bedroom, a wedding present from Eileen's parents, ready for the new baby they were expecting. And then little Niamh had died, and never slept in it, and Brendan used to watch Eileen touch the cot last thing at night, and it broke his heart to witness her pain. So all he could do was give her another baby, and they prayed – literally, prayed – that Declan would be spared; and he was, and the cot became his. Eileen fell in love with her little boy, and had little physical affection left over for Brendan, but that suited him fine: he didn't need that, not from her.

Brendan looked around Stephen and Amy's flat. He found Stephen's room: his spare uniform T-shirt was draped carefully over a chair, but it was otherwise a bit of a tip, with clothes and junk and children's toys strewn around. Messy bugger, then. Brendan picked up the pillow from the bed, and pressed it to his face to get the scent of the boy.

Macca must have been kipping on the sofa, because there was a blanket stashed away in the corner, and underneath it a holdall containing some of his clothes. There was a rack in the middle of the room with clothes drying on it, mainly the children's but also some of Amy's, and either Stephen's or Macca's. Brendan recognised some of Macca's boxers, and put them in the bag, and as he did so he noticed that wrapped in the blanket was that fucking dressing gown. Jesus, he'd lugged the thing all the way from Belfast. It was like a security blanket for the boy. An oversized, stripy, ugly security blanket. There was a pair of pyjamas too. Brendan hadn't known Macca wore pyjamas – whenever he'd gone to him during the night and found him in bed, he'd either been in boxers or naked. These must just be for when he was staying away from home.

He stuffed the pyjamas and dressing gown into the holdall, then found the bathroom. There were two toothbrushes together with two little children's ones, and in a mug separately, another brush and a disposable razor which he assumed were Macca's. Brendan packed them, had another quick scout around the flat, then left and walked home.

:::::::

Next morning, around eight o'clock, Brendan's mobile rang: _unknown number_. It had woken him, and he answered sleepily. It was a nurse from the hospital, calling to let him know that his nephew had been taken in yesterday evening as an emergency.

"It looks as if he was attacked, Mr Brady," the nurse said, "Although he can't remember at this stage what happened. He's asked us to call you as his nearest relative in England; he doesn't want to worry his mum and dad."

Fuck.

"How... How is he?"

"He's quite poorly I'm afraid. He has a traumatic pneumothorax. Basically, that means that he's sustained a chest injury, and one of his fractured ribs pierced his lung. At the moment he's here in ITU, and we're working to get him stabilised."

:::::::

Brendan drove to the hospital with the bag he'd taken from Stephen's flat yesterday. He found the ward, and a nurse showed him to Macca's bay.

Macca looked like a sick child, tiny, surrounded by the paraphernalia of intensive care. There were two monitors beside the bed. An oxygen mask half covered his face. He had a drip attached to one hand, and a canula in the other. Some sort of plastic tube had been inserted under his arm, held secure by white tape stained with blood, or maybe iodine. A bag was hooked under the side of the bed, half full of piss from a catheter.

"You can go in," the nurse said. "He's drowsy from the painkillers, but he's been awake this morning."

"No, I'm... I can't stop. I just brought his stuff." Brendan thrust the holdall at her. "I'll come back. Tell him I... Tell him I'll come another day."

Brendan fled back to his car and away from the hospital, and home, where he went into the bathroom and threw up.

:::::::

The next couple of days, Brendan jumped every time his mobile rang in case it was news from the hospital, but there was nothing. He began to relax, thinking Macca must be getting better. Maybe it wasn't as bad as it had looked, and the boy would soon be fit enough to get off home to Belfast.

He'd been neglecting his pursuit of Stephen, with one thing and another, but an invitation to a poker game at the local pub presented the chance to step it up again. Brendan ran into Stephen, intending to ask him to come along to the game that night to man the bar. The lad was bursting to tell him his latest news, that Rae was back in the picture and he was seeing her that evening. Despite Veronica, despite all Brendan's efforts to split them up. All the more reason to get him along to the game: and Stephen jumped at the chance, offering no resistance to the idea that he should drop the date with Rae. Maybe the girl wasn't quite as enticing as Brendan feared. He couldn't help smiling at Stephen's excitement; and he couldn't help glancing at his mouth, his parted lips – a subliminal invitation, if ever he saw one.

:::::::

There were six of them at the poker game: Brendan; Carl, the owner of the pub; Jack Osbourne, who worked there; Tony, Stephen's ex-boss from the restaurant; and a couple of mates of Carl's.

Stephen had put a smart shirt on. Brendan hadn't really seen him in much other than his Chez Chez uniform and his usual off-duty look, which was always a bit hit-and-miss. This shirt emphasised that skinny body of his; he looked good.

Brendan broke it to him that he wasn't there only to serve the drinks, but also to tip him off about what hands the other players held. The boy's moral objections evaporated as soon as Brendan told him he would cut him in on whatever they won. Brendan had seen how poor Stephen and Amy were – he hadn't given it a thought until he'd had a look round their home – and it only took a mention of how he could use the money for Leah and Lucas, to get him on board. It was understandable. You had to do whatever it took to give your kids a better life.

The card game went well. Brendan found Stephen's subtle signals about the other men's cards so easy to read that he was amazed no-one else picked up on them. Jack and Tony must both have known that Stephen was no angel – they'd both known him for years, and probably knew a lot more about his past misdemeanours than Brendan had managed to find out so far – and yet they suspected nothing. Maybe it was because, paradoxically, this boy somehow came across as innocent. Fresh. Untainted.

Brendan quit while he was ahead, without pushing his luck. It was a good night's work.

It was cold out in the street, but the October night sky was clear. Stephen was buzzing as he and Brendan stood chatting for a few minutes.

"You'd better be getting home, Stephen. Those kids of yours will be waking you up before you know it."

"Tell me about it. But, Brendan, erm, I had a brilliant time. We was a proper team tonight, weren't we?"

Brendan smiled.

"Yeah. Yeah, we were. Hope it was worth missing your date for."

"Too right. I mean, Rae's great and everything, but you gotta be there for your mates, right?"

"Right."

"So, if you want me to do it again, I'll be up for it."

"Good to know. Here." Brendan pressed a few notes from his winnings into Stephen's palm. The boy was surprisingly warm in the chilly air as Brendan's hand kept contact for a second or two. "You did me proud tonight."

:::::::

The nurse told Macca that his uncle had been in, and had brought his bag for him.

"Was he okay?"

"Was _he_ okay? You're the one who's in hospital, aren't you? Though now you say that, he did look pretty shocked. I'm sure he'll be in to see you though: he told me to tell you he would."

It was hard to keep track of days in here; he was sleeping most of the time, and sometimes when he woke up he would look at the clock and not know if the time was _am_ or _pm_. The doctor had warned him that the drugs he was taking to mask the pain, so that he wouldn't be frightened to breathe, were strong and could make him confused. Maybe he hadn't been in as long as he thought, but even so, if Brendan didn't come back to see him soon, he'd ask one of the nurses to give him another call. He needed to see him, to let him know that, for once, Macca had the power: he could tell the police everything.


	12. Chapter 12

Stephen had loved playing his part in the poker game at the Dog: he was buzzing when Brendan asked him about it the next day. Brendan gave him the impression it might become a regular thing, told him his system needed a bit of work, but that he'd done well. It might even have been true that they would do it again – Brendan had enjoyed the game and enjoyed winning, and he'd also enjoyed Stephen being onside for once.

It didn't last. It never bloody lasted with this lad. Stephen's phone rang as they were talking, and it was Rae again. The girl was a permanent obstacle, and Stephen was still dead set on getting together with her. And it was all down to Brendan's cunning plan, apparently. He'd advised the boy to play it cool to make her come running, thinking that if Stephen treated her mean, Rae would take the hint and fuck off. Instead, she'd embraced the cliché and was keener than ever. Brendan couldn't imagine why Stephen would want a vacuous little girl like her.

:::::::

Danny Houston showed up at Chez Chez later that afternoon. He hadn't seen the place before, even though he'd sunk a load of money into it. He seemed impressed, but the main attraction, Brendan could tell, was Jacqui. Danny had seen her a couple of times now, and appeared to be fixated on her. The girl didn't seem as enthusiastic, but it was none of Brendan's business.

His friendship with Danny went back years; it was based on a mutual wary respect. They had a certain insight into each other's ways, which made them both understand and distrust each other. Brendan didn't have any friendships that were simpler than that, really. Few friendships at all, really, unless you counted those boys while they'd lasted.

He didn't feel like a night out at a casino when Danny suggested it, but the timing was useful, as it happened. Rae had come to the club to hang out with Stephen while he worked, and Brendan knew – just knew – that if he asked the lad along to make up a foursome, he would take the bait and drop the girl, just like he'd done for the poker game the night before. And he was right, Stephen didn't even hesitate. Rae stormed off: even better.

Brendan sent Jacqui and Stephen home to get changed.

Stephen still had his black work trousers on when he got back. That was fine, they always made his arse look... But he'd put on a shirt and tie. It was nicely ironic: Brendan had told him that Rae looked too young to get into the casino without drawing attention, and yet here was Stephen, trying to look sophisticated but somehow ending up looking like a lanky schoolboy.

"You got some ID with you?" Brendan asked him.

"No. Why?" He frowned, defensive. "What you saying?"

"It's alright," Danny said. "They know me where we're going. I'll vouch for your young friend, Brendan."

Brendan flinched at the choice of words; he felt uneasy when Danny said things like that, as if he thought he knew something.

:::::::

It was a good night. Brendan and Jacqui both came out ahead on the card tables, and Danny more so: he could afford to lose, so he wasn't afraid to gamble against long odds. Brendan gave Stephen some money to try his luck on the machines in the bar, and he came back after a while to confess sheepishly that he'd lost the lot.

Brendan bowed out when Danny moved on to roulette; he bought drinks for Stephen and Jacqui, and the three of them stood and watched as Danny lost a few hundred and won a few thousand. Nerves of steel, Brendan thought. There was no way he would play roulette himself, because it was all down to luck. At least with cards you had a degree of control over your fate.

Danny wanted Jacqui to go home with him when he'd done enough gambling, but she told him she had an early start tomorrow. Her reluctance was obvious, and when Danny said he would take her home in his car, Brendan stepped in.

"No problem, Danny boy, no point in you coming our way. You get off, I'll get us a taxi."

Danny was pissed off but gave in, and when he'd gone, Jacqui gave Brendan a kiss on the cheek. She wasn't the only one to be glad to get shot of the guy; one more pointed remark, and Brendan felt like he would lose it with him.

:::::::

The hours and days in hospital crawled by, but Macca somehow found that he had little time to think. His pain medication made him drowsy and muddled, and it was only when it began to wear off that he became himself again: that was when his mind started working, but only until the pain in his chest took hold again and he could concentrate on nothing else. Then the next dose of drugs would come around, and the cycle would continue.

It was early afternoon and he was having one of these interludes of clarity. Macca knew that Brendan had been in once, the day after the beating, to bring in his belongings, but there had been no visit from him since, not even a phone call. He guessed that Brendan hadn't told anyone else that he was here, or they'd have come to see him – Cheryl definitely would have, and maybe even Ste. He wondered what, if anything, Brendan had said to Ste about his stuff disappearing from Ste's flat, and about Macca himself disappearing off the face of the earth.

He tried to work out why he was protecting Brendan by telling the doctors and the police that he couldn't remember the attack. He'd given Brendan enough chances. God, he'd even had broken ribs before, right near the start of their relationship; he'd been pushed around, punched, kicked, even bitten – he remembered his mouth filling with blood from his lip, from a bite inflicted by Brendan in anger. And afterwards, he'd always let himself be seduced again.

Macca came to a decision: he would tell the hospital, get Brendan reported to the police, put an end to the violence, and finally escape his own stupid dream that they'd be together again.

The nurse came along with his meds, and he took them gratefully, then shut his eyes and waited for them to take effect.

"Feeling better, son?"

Macca opened his eyes at the sound of the familiar voice, his heart thumping.

"Jesus Christ."

"It's Brendan." A half-smile. "Easy mistake. You had me worried there, Macca, getting yourself landed in this place."

This was confusing. Getting _himself_ landed in hospital? Maybe the painkillers had already kicked in.

"I didn't think you were coming." Macca could hear the weakness in his own voice, the halting effect of his shallow, painful breathing. He must sound pathetic.

"I came before, didn't they tell you?"

"Yeah they did." He looked at Brendan. "You look tired."

"Had a late one last night. Casino."

"Yeah? Alright for some. Who'd you go with?"

Brendan unhooked the chart from the foot of the bed and flicked through the pages.

"Danny, you know, the fella who owns part of the club. And a couple of mates... The nurse said they're moving you out of intensive care. That right?"

"Hopefully, soon yeah. Going to the respiratory ward."

"Good lad. Sooner you get out of this hospital, the better. Then, see if you can stay out of trouble, yeah?"

Macca held his oxygen mask to his face and took a couple of breaths.

"It wasn't my fault, Bren."

Brendan's tone was measured, pedantic, as if he was talking to a child.

"It wouldn't have happened if you'd done what I told you, and stayed away. I told you not to come here, didn't I?"

"Yes, but - "

"And you know I lose my temper, don't you? You know how to _make_ me lose my temper, you've done it before. You must've known what would happen if you came, son, and yet you did it anyway." He replaced the chart, and came and stood over Macca.

"I only wanted..." Macca struggled to think of his defence, but it eluded him. "I'm sorry."

"You always are." Brendan gently traced with his fingertips the lines left on Macca's cheek by the oxygen mask. "You're a good lad, but you didn't ever learn, did you? Listen, I've got to get back to work."

"Will you come and see me again?"

Brendan checked that there was no-one around, then leaned over to kiss Macca's forehead. Macca got the familiar scent of aftershave and last night's whiskey, and whatever it was that smelt of _him_. And then he was gone.

Brendan was right, of course: Macca didn't know why he hadn't realised it before. Maybe it was the drugs. All the times Brendan had hurt him, there'd always been a reason; if there hadn't been, why would he have gone back to him every time? Macca had wound him up, again and again, and he'd given Brendan mixed signals too, he knew that. He got a rush from the pain of a bite, from his wrists being gripped too tightly, from feeling overpowered and out of control; and Brendan knew it. So it was hardly surprising that the line between the kind of injuries that Macca wanted, and the kind that he didn't, got crossed sometimes.

It was obvious. The latest battering was worse than before, yes, and Brendan shouldn't have done it; but it was part of a pattern. Macca would break a rule; Brendan would react; and then they'd come together again. Same as always.

The painkiller was working now: his breathing got easier, and he became detached from his surroundings as he drifted into sleep. The cycle continued.

:::::::

It was a relief to have seen Macca awake and able to talk. Brendan had been horrified when he saw him in hospital on that first day; it had crossed his mind that the kid might even die, he'd looked so broken and vulnerable with all those tubes and needles stuck in him. But now it looked like he would soon be out of ITU, and after that, it would only be a matter of time before he was discharged and off on the plane to Ireland. Macca was a good boy: he always had been, really. But Brendan needed him gone.

Driving back to the club, he thought about last night – or this morning, rather. In the taxi on the way home from the casino in the early hours, Stephen had fallen asleep, slumping against Brendan's shoulder. Brendan had pushed him away, but once Jacqui got out of the car and hurried into the flats, he'd let him stay there, feeling the surprising weight of that scrawny body before waking him with a shove. He watched the boy until he was inside his front door.

Today, Stephen was on the rota for the afternoon and the evening. Brendan found him sitting on his own, and observed him for a minute as he yawned and scratched.

Provocative little bastard.

Brendan used to wonder if he did it on purpose, the desultory, sleepy, fuck-you attitude; the pouting; the cocky gaze up at you through those cartoon eyelashes; the insolent frown. But he'd come to the conclusion that all those things weren't calculated to entice, and Stephen really didn't know the effect he had. The boy had no idea that he was desirable, that he was begging to be taken. He badly needed showing.

Brendan startled him when he spoke, and Stephen was momentarily flustered at being caught napping, but then his excitement about last night bubbled up. The kid was wide-eyed at the amount of money Danny had won.

"I bet Jacqui thinks that all her Christmases have come at once, don't she?"

"Well, he's welcome to her."

"Sorry," Stephen said awkwardly. "I forgot that you and her had a bit of a thing."

Brendan started to walk away, testing him, and sure enough, Stephen stopped him:

"You know what, you can do better than that anyway."

Brendan looked at him. Looked at his mouth. He was reeling him in, he could feel it. They talked a little more.

"Got any plans for tonight?" the boy asked.

"That's none of your business, is it?"

Stephen looked confused and disappointed: playing it cool worked on this boy, just like it did on that girl Rae. Brendan did have plans, as it happened; he was meeting a contact to do a bit of business. He sanitised it for Stephen, told him he was going into town with some friends.

"I think I'm just gonna ring Rae, you know, make it up to her after standing her up last night."

Shit. Stephen still wasn't giving up on that girl.

:::::::

Alone in the office, Brendan leaned back in his chair, his feet on the desk, his eyes closed.

He'd been out with Stephen two nights in a row, and he had no doubt now that the boy liked him, or at least that he was flattered by the attention and would be up for more of the same. But still it was possible that Brendan would lose him to that girl. He had a strong feeling that it was now or never.

He phoned his contact, and told him something had come up and he wouldn't be able to make their meeting tonight.

:::::::

Stephen was behind the bar. Brendan walked up to him, and when the lad asked him if he was off now for his night out, he told him that his mates had let him down at the last minute.

He waited for Stephen to bite: it didn't take long.

"I could go with you! But I'm working."

His eagerness was palpable. Brendan punctured it.

"Are you trying to suggest that someone else do your shift?"

"No." Stephen turned away, his dejection so thorough that Brendan felt a shimmer of guilt. "No, I just thought that if you really wanted to go, then..."

Brendan let him suffer for a couple of seconds more before he spoke again.

"Cheryl's not here, you can have the night off. Be ready by seven."

It couldn't be clearer: it had been Stephen's suggestion, so whatever happened tonight would be Stephen's fault. Brendan would make sure the boy remembered that.


	13. Chapter 13

When Brendan had taken him to the poker game at the Dog two nights ago, Stephen had been there to man the bar. Last night, for the trip to the casino, there'd been a group of them going. Well, four, but even so. Tonight though, it was just going to be the two of them, and it felt different. Brendan had never been out with a boy before.

Back in the day, before he'd discovered with Vinnie and then Macca the advantages of having someone he could see regularly, Brendan might pick a man up in a bar and buy them a drink there before they went and found a place to fuck, but he'd never gone out _with_ them. With Vinnie, well, they'd worked in a club together, so they'd often had a drink there after hours or gone back to Brendan's place, but they'd never once been anywhere else. And with Macca, it was out of the question: too many people in Belfast knew him or Brendan, so they couldn't risk being seen together. In any case, all they did was fuck, so what was the point? Macca's bed was all they'd needed.

Not that that this was a date tonight with Stephen, or anything like one; it was just that his intentions for how it would pan out, had tilted it into something that wasn't a lads' night. Brendan reminded himself that it was part of the process, part of the plan.

He rang for a taxi, then called Stephen to say he would pick him up from home. Brendan didn't want him coming back to the club and people seeing them leave together, and thinking things about them.

When Brendan's cab pulled up outside the council flats it was not long after seven, but it was already dark, and Brendan only got a brief look at Stephen as he got in, before he slammed the door and the light went out. Even in the shadows of the back seat, though, he could see his eyes shining.

Brendan didn't go into Chester very much; he preferred, on days or nights off, to go to Liverpool or Manchester, where the more populated and fluid environment lent itself to anonymity. But tonight it suited his purpose to be that much nearer home, and he let Stephen choose a pub that he liked going to.

Stephen had half an eye on the girls, and Brendan egged him on a bit, pleased that he didn't seem to be holding out for Rae to come running back to him.

It was interesting. Brendan had never been out on the pull; not for women. He'd been married for ever, so all he'd ever done on nights out with the lads was contribute the occasional appropriate, inappropriate remark, to blend in. He did the same now, but Stephen lost interest in the idea after a while, and they talked about other things. Brendan found out a bit about him, and shared a little about his own life: enough to establish a kind of intimacy.

They drank, and moved on to another bar, and another, and Stephen was relaxed and happy – booze seemed to make him silly, not depressed or angry – and the wariness that Brendan had created in him ever since their first meeting, faded away. Brendan decided that the time was right to 'discover' that he'd left his money at home, and only had enough left for a taxi back to the village and maybe a drink or two in the Dog. Stephen accepted his story. Why wouldn't he?

Then, it was simple to get the boy to come back to the flat with him, and give him a whiskey, and slump on the sofa with him. Brendan let him know that Cheryl and Lynsey were back in Belfast for a hen party, so they had the place to themselves. Still, Stephen seemed oblivious. When Brendan rested his arm behind him along the back of the sofa, he appeared not to notice; nor when their hands touched as Brendan handed him his glass; nor when their limbs settled against each other as they sat; nor when he flattered him and told him he liked him, their faces inches apart, Brendan's eyes sliding to the boy's lips. The atmosphere was unmistakably heady with drink and the promise of sex: surely Stephen must sense it.

Tired and needing something to happen, Brendan finally, impulsively, tripped the boy up as he stood to get another drink, and fell on top of him. It was a crass move: Brendan was more drunk than he'd intended, and his judgement was off. He looked into Stephen's eyes. Stared. Held his head, touched his face. Fought the desire to take the next step. Waited. And then something new came into the lad's expression, and he reached up, hesitantly put his hand around the back of Brendan's neck, and kissed him.

Brendan sprang up, backed off, accused.

"Did you just... Did you just kiss me?" He watched the confusion and fear in the boy as he stammered an apology.

Brendan shouted at him to go, then stood for a moment, suddenly breathless. Stephen had made the move: it was Stephen's fault, all of it.

:::::::

Brendan went straight to bed. He was dead tired, but he couldn't sleep, his mind churning with the details of the last few hours. Stephen had looked as if he'd made an effort for him: his smart shirt had shown off that skinny body of his; Brendan had put a hand on his shoulder and felt the heat of him through the thin cotton. It would have been so easy, once he'd got him back to the flat, to forget his strategy and bridge the gap between them as they sat so close together, and taste him properly. But it would have been a gamble. Better to have let Stephen start it himself, and feel afraid of what he'd done.

In the brief moment of the kiss, before Brendan had ended it, the boy's lips had been soft and warm. The way he had touched Brendan and craned up to meet him: there was a kind of courage in it. The memory kept him awake.

:::::::

Brendan must have slept for a few hours eventually, and when he woke and looked at the clock it was nearly eleven. It was okay: he didn't have to be at work until later.

There was a mug of tea by the bed, and he vaguely remembered getting up a few hours ago to get it. That must be when he'd finally dropped off. The tea was stone cold, but he gulped it down, wanting the sweetness of the sugar that had settled at the bottom. He lay for a few more minutes. Would Stephen be too freaked to show up for his shift? If he didn't turn up, Brendan would go and fetch him – he didn't want to lose the momentum, now that he was so close.

He took his time in the shower, then sat in a towel in the kitchen eating slice after slice of toast. Then he went back to his bedroom to get dressed.

He chose a shirt the colour of fresh blood.

:::::::

Stephen was at work when Brendan got there. He looked haunted; Brendan threw him the odd accusatory glance, but didn't address him. There was no point – he knew the kid would come to him.

He was right. He was in the office going through the post when Stephen crept in, asking if he'd got a minute. 'Kid' was right too, Stephen looked like a schoolboy expecting (at best) a telling off. He said he was sorry; that he thought the booze had stopped him thinking straight. Brendan watched him steadily, fascinated by the waves of apprehension that washed across his face.

"No worries, mate," Brendan told him, and that seemed to confuse him even more.

"So I've still got a job, you're not gonna batter me?"

"You wouldn't be much use to me then, now, would you?" Just because Macca had taken beatings, and Vinnie before him a couple of times, it didn't follow that Stephen would have to. Not if he stuck to the rules. "Sit down, son, you look dead on your feet."

Stephen perched on a cabinet in the corner, his legs dangling. Christ, he looked young, and what Brendan was doing felt wrong momentarily; but he reminded himself that this was a grown man, a parent, someone who had even seen the inside of a prison. That was one of Brendan's worst nightmares, being caged up, and this boy had survived the experience: he was old enough. In any case, Vinnie had been even younger, nineteen when Brendan got him, and he'd been fine, hadn't he?

"I didn't sleep much." Stephen interrupted Brendan's thoughts.

"Yeah, it was a late one."

"No, I mean, I was thinking."

"About?"

"About... About what I did." He fiddled with his clothes, avoiding eye contact. "It's not even like I've ever done it before."

"You blaming me?" The boy better not be.

Stephen looked up.

"No, I didn't mean that."

"You think I'm queer?"

"No! I don't think it's anything to do with you. It's me. It must be me."

Fuck, what was he saying? Brendan kept his voice even.

"So... you _have_ done it before?" Sweat prickled Brendan's back. His body's reaction surprised him: was it that important that no other man had already had Stephen? He was surprised, too, by the relief he felt when the boy explained. There'd been a lad in Young Offenders with him, a mate who he'd had some kind of feelings about – but nothing had happened.

"I never. I thought about it, but I never. And then when I got out I just went straight back to Amy, didn't I, and I never thought about another bloke ever again."

Brendan was glad he was behind the desk; he could feel his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers.

Stephen asked him if he was going to tell anyone. This was good: he wanted secrecy, and Brendan promised. And when the poor kid asked if they were still mates, his eyes pleaded for the answer to be yes.

"It never happened, okay?" Brendan told Stephen to get back to work, and to shut the door behind him.

_I thought about it, but I never._

It was going to happen today.

:::::::

Brendan needed to get out of the club for a while. He went to the pub, got chatting with Mercedes to wind Malachy up. Stephen rang him two or three times, and Brendan rejected the calls. He knew what he wanted – some cash to pay the delivery driver – and he knew that Stephen would have to come looking for him to get it. That was the other reason Brendan was drinking with Mercedes: to see if Stephen would be jealous when he showed up. And he was. Brendan even asked him. _Very funny_, the boy said.

Brendan gave him the money and off he went, disgruntled. Very funny.

He stayed in the Dog a while longer, then left to walk back to the club. He shouldn't have needed those drinks inside him to do this. His chest shouldn't feel so tight, and his hands shouldn't be feeling clammy. Get a fucking grip.

:::::::

Stephen must have believed that last night was forgiven and forgotten – in spite of Brendan's dig about jealousy – because he seemed relaxed as he worked. Brendan needed him uncomfortable though, and uncertain where he stood. That was how he would control him. So when Stephen attempted to make conversation, Brendan dismissed him coldly.

"Less chat, more work."

Stephen pouted. Brendan dragged his eyes away from those lips. Soon.

Later, behind the bar, he stood close to the boy.

"Looking for something to do?" He told him some crates needed shifting in the cellar. Gave him a minute or two to get down there; fetched the cellar key from the office, and went down after him.

Stephen had a crate of beers in his hands and was heading for the door when Brendan walked into the cellar.

"You're not going anywhere." He slid the key into the lock, turned it, and turned back to the boy.

There was fear in Stephen's eyes, and incomprehension. Brendan walked towards him, and he backed away until he hit the wall. He held the crate in his arms like a barrier between them, and Brendan leaned against it, trapping Stephen's body with it. The lad was shaking, clearly believing his punishment was coming. Brendan breathed in sharply, getting the scent of him: brand new sweat; cheap aftershave; terror.

Taking the crate and putting it on the nearest surface, Brendan turned to Stephen again. The boy was expecting to be hit, and was going to stand there and take it. Christ.

This was it now. Brendan kissed him, just for a second. Took a moment to look at the boy's face and to register his astonishment. Brendan smiled: was it triumph? Whatever, he couldn't help it. Kissed him again, and saw his eyes close. When their eyes met again, for the first time Brendan saw that Stephen wanted him back, and they kissed ferociously, grabbing at each other. Brendan pulled the boy hard against his body, his tongue invading Stephen's mouth and being met with hunger.

Brendan's fingers dug into the flesh of Stephen's arse, and when they broke for air, his hands moved up to take hold of the boy's T-shirt, and he dragged it off over his head and flung it aside. Stephen began to unbutton Brendan's red shirt; Brendan let him, and unzipped the boy's trousers, and slid his hands down the back of his boxers. He found Stephen's hole, and pushed a finger into him. Stephen twisted free of him.

"No, Brendan, what you doing?"

Stupid question. But the boy looked panicky: it was too soon. Brendan had put a condom in his pocket just in case, but he'd known it was unlikely he'd get to fuck him today. That would require more time, to get him relaxed enough. Okay.

He pulled Stephen's trousers and boxers down to his thighs.

"No, Brendan."

"It's okay." Brendan picked him up, and sat him up next to the beer crate. Then he stood back a little, and looked at him.

There was a tattoo on his left hip: Brendan hadn't known that. It was a star with a pair of feathered wings spreading out from it, the kind of ersatz art that was meant to be symbolic but was just pretentious. The cross tattooed on Brendan's arm had hurt like hell, and this thing on Stephen's scrawny hip, where there was no flesh at all, must have been even more painful. It was interesting to know that this boy would lie back and submit willingly to that much pain.

If the purpose of the tattoo was to draw attention to the perfection around it, then it worked – although a bruise or a bite would do the job just as well, and some fifty quid tattooist wouldn't have had the pleasure. But fuck, he was perfect. There was a little bit of hair in the middle of his chest, and above and around his cock, but otherwise the skin on his torso was smooth and somehow golden. His body was narrow; the slight indentations between his ribs were visible as his diaphragm rose and fell with his rapid breaths. His shoulders were straight; the veins on his arms stood out as he gripped the edge of the surface. His cock wasn't particularly big, but it was beautiful, and erect, and Brendan had never wanted anything more.

He tugged Stephen's trousers down to his ankles, so that he could get his knees apart and get between them. Then he kissed his mouth; pulled his head back by his hair and kissed his Adam's apple. He took hold of Stephen's cock, and gave its head a firm lick; looked up to see the amazement on the boy's face; took him into his mouth. His tongue worked as he took him deeper; his thumbs massaged Stephen's balls. The boy began to whimper, and soon – very soon, but that wasn't surprising – came with a cry.

Brendan swallowed, kissed him roughly, then lifted him down and pushed him onto his knees as he undid his own trousers.

Stephen looked shellshocked – poor kid – but faced with Brendan's cock he also looked determined. He tentatively took hold of it, and eased his lips over its tip. Brendan held his head, but didn't push: he knew what it was like, trying this for the first time, and didn't want to put him off.

Stephen gagged, and sat back on his heels.

"Sorry, I can't - "

"It's okay, you're doing fine. Try again."

He had another go, and Brendan encouraged him.

"Imagine you're yawning." He felt Stephen's throat opening a little. "Good lad."

The boy got more confident, and used his hands too. When Brendan came, Stephen was startled and jerked away, but swallowed what he could.

He struggled to stand, hobbled by his trousers around his ankles. Brendan zipped up, then helped him to his feet, found a cloth and wiped the lad's chin and chest; then he kissed him and turned to go.

One more. It had been two and a half months since he'd last got his hands on a man, so fuck it, why not? He returned to Stephen, held his face in his hands, and kissed him again, hard and deep.

"Good." Brendan walked to the door and unlocked it. "Bring that crate up, there's a good lad."


	14. Chapter 14

Brendan had left the club yesterday before Stephen had made it upstairs from the cellar. It was fucking cowardly, he knew, but he wasn't thinking clearly at the time, not after what they'd just done.

He had established carefully that the boy would be open to the idea, at least in theory; and when Stephen had kissed him after their night out the night before, nobody had forced him. So Brendan had been confident that he would be compliant. What he hadn't expected was that, although Stephen was shocked by the turn of events and pretty clueless about what to do, there was naked desire in his eyes almost as soon as Brendan started to kiss him. The thought of that look, and the feel of the boy's hands as they'd stroked up Brendan's back beneath his open red shirt, and the reality – at last – of that soft, angular body, had given Brendan yet another restless night.

As he walked to work, his mobile rang: Macca. Fuck, he'd forgotten about him; now more than ever, Brendan wanted him gone. If he found out about Stephen, or if Stephen found out about him...

"Bren?"

"Macca. How's tricks?"

"Better." He still sounded weak. "I just wanted to let you know, I've been moved, I'm in the respiratory ward now."

"Yeah? That's good, ain't it?" This must mean he was one step closer to being discharged.

"Hope so, yeah. You'll be coming to see me again?"

"I'm working all hours, son, I can't just -"

"I miss you, Bren."

Jesus. Was he ever going to drop this?

"Fucksake, Macca. I gotta go."

Brendan ended the call. These boys, they always wanted something more. Stephen better not be the same.

:::::::

He felt jumpy when he got to work. The Stephen situation would need careful handling, but he couldn't plan how to deal with him until he'd assessed exactly how freaked out he was by what happened yesterday.

When the boy arrived for his shift, Brendan knew it was him by the sound of his footsteps coming up the stairs, and turned to face him. Stephen smiled, as if there was something shared between them; as if he expected something. Brendan's stomach felt like a clenched fist, and he blanked him, turned his back.

He continued to cold-shoulder him, barely speaking when their paths crossed. Stephen seemed hurt and disappointed, but what did he expect? A blowjob and a few kisses weren't a promise of anything.

Brendan had to move it on, though, because he wanted to have him. Every time he looked at Stephen, he was acutely aware of the body beneath the clothes, and recalled viscerally the velvet skin; the tastes of him and the sounds he made; how his mouth had opened wide and submitted. So after letting him stew for a couple of hours, Brendan asked him, "You alright?"

"Never better," Stephen answered, and put his hand on Brendan's, and held it lightly.

Brendan shook him off as Cheryl came up the stairs and passed through. Didn't Stephen get it? Did he seriously not know who made the rules? Brendan told him he wanted a private word with him, and led the way to the cellar.

:::::::

"You alright?"

It was Stephen's turn to ask, and he sounded genuinely concerned. So he'd spotted that something was wrong, then; maybe he'd worked out that attempting to hold hands had been a mistake.

"Yeah."

"Just thought that you were being funny with me."

Brendan asked why, and Stephen moved towards him.

"You know." He smiled. Shy. Dirty.

"Remind me."

"After what we did in here." He looked up at Brendan, and reached out to touch his waist.

This wasn't how this was meant to work. Brendan was meant to decide if and when anything happened; this boy wasn't meant to make a move that made the blood pulse in Brendan's groin. He got the cellar key out of his pocket and asked him to lock the door: Stephen's eyes lit up.

"If you like."

"Oh yeah, I like."

Stephen turned the key then faced Brendan expectantly.

Brendan turned his back.

It wasn't right. After what they'd done in here yesterday, Stephen ought to want to scrub his skin clean of the sensations that had overwhelmed him, and to vomit out the tastes that had assaulted his throat.

He should be looking into the eyes of his children and their mother, searching for signs that they had found him out, that they knew his identity was a veneer, paper-thin; that he was a fake and a fraud. He should be trying to work out how he had fallen so far short of what a man should be.

He ought to wish he'd never done it, never let himself succumb, because it would never go away now. Everything that he'd tried to live up to since he was a kid, because that was what was normal and natural, would seem pale now and never be enough for him: not now that he'd sold his soul. He ought to be feeling ashamed, weighed down with this secret that would taint every part of his life.

"D'you want me to go?"

Stephen's question cut into Brendan's thoughts, startling him into answering truthfully.

"No."

"Okay." Stephen put his hand on Brendan's shoulder; he shrugged it off reflexively and turned and looked at the boy, and put a hand on his chest because he needed to keep him at arm's length. Stephen wore his desire on his face, open and shameless. Brendan stroked the hair at his temple, as gently as he'd ever done anything to anyone. Stephen licked his lips, looking so certain that he knew what Brendan wanted.

He was wrong: he didn't know Brendan at all, and as Brendan's fist crashed into his ribs and he staggered and crumbled onto the floor, the sound he made was of shock as much as pain.

_Macca, on the ground in the park with his chest caved in, and a year earlier, against the wall in his flat, his ribs cracked with a punch. Before him, Vinnie, naked on the floor in the Liverpool club, scrambling away in fear of another kick._

_Stephen, sobbing in the corner of the cellar._

"I don't understand." Crying, pathetic.

Brendan crouched over him, and threatened him never to touch him again.

"I won't, I swear. I just thought that - "

"Thought what?"

"That you wanted me to."

Wanted him to touch Brendan? What this boy forced him to want – what this boy forced him to feel – made Brendan nauseous.

"You disgust me."

He stood and stepped away; his throat felt tight and there were tears on his face. He had to compose himself and deal with this. Now that he'd taught the kid a lesson, he would make it right.

"You okay? Hey. You okay? Come on, get up." Stephen shook his head; he was trembling. Brendan tried again. "Get up. You're hurt, you need looking at."

He hauled Stephen to his feet and held him as he unlocked the door. There was no-one about as they reached the top of the stairs.

"My car's round the back. Not far, okay? Good lad."

He helped Stephen into the passenger seat then got in the driver's side and leaned across to pull the seatbelt around him. Stephen stifled a yelp at the pressure of it.

"Sorry, sorry. Look, you've gotta wear it, Stephen, we don't wanna get stopped. Okay?"

Stephen nodded, and held the belt away from his body as they drove in silence to the hospital. Brendan constructed in his head a story they would tell to explain what had happened.

:::::::

They had to wait a while before Stephen was taken to a cubicle to be assessed. Brendan went with him, and answered most of the triage nurse's questions himself: it was a mugging, in the alley near the club; Brendan had found his employee there after it had happened, and had reported it to the local detective constable, so there was no need to call the police to the hospital.

Brendan helped Stephen take off his T-shirt so that the nurse could have a look: his body looked pale compared with yesterday, and marred by a developing bruise.

"Okay, pop this on for me, my love," the nurse said, and helped him on with a hospital gown. "It'll be a bit of a wait til the doctor gets to you, and we won't know til then whether he'll want you to have an x-ray."

She left them alone.

"I'm gonna... I've got some calls I gotta make, Stephen, I'll go and do that while you're waiting, yeah?" No response. "Stephen. I'll be back in a bit, okay?"

Stephen nodded, and shut his eyes.

"Good lad."

:::::::

Macca felt disorientated in his new ward. He'd been brought here in a wheelchair by a porter, who had pulled the chair backwards along all the corridors instead of pushing it, giving Macca a weird sense of dislocation and something like motion sickness.

There were no individual bays on the respiratory ward, and the beds were crowded close together – or that was how it felt to him. There were fewer nurses than in the ITU, but there were many more unidentifiable people wandering about. All but one of the other patients were old.

He hadn't got into bed, but sat in the chair beside it, hoping it would make him feel a bit more human and independent. The previous occupant had left a newspaper behind on the locker. It was yesterday's but it was the first one he'd seen since he'd arrived in hospital, so he sat and read it.

"Took me a while to track you down. It's a labyrinth, this place."

"Brendan!" Macca felt as if his heart had been jump-started. He tried to appear calm. "I wasn't expecting you today."

"You asked me to come, didn't you?"

"Yes, but you never said you would."

"Thought I'd surprise you. You getting out soon, Macca? They told you yet?"

"Another week, maybe. Least, that's what they said on the other ward, but I haven't seen a doctor here yet."

Brendan sat down on the edge of the bed. Macca looked at him closely: his eyes looked sore, like he'd had no sleep, or... Macca remembered the time back in Belfast when Brendan had come to him after learning that Vinnie had died; he'd cried then – sobbed – and afterwards, after they'd fucked and slept it off, his eyes had looked like they looked now. Tired. Haunted. The lines around them deeper.

Macca could smell recent sweat on him, and could tell that he was agitated, even though he was doing a good job of hiding it.

"Has something happened, Bren?" Macca waited for an answer, but Brendan just twisted around to stare out of the window. "Cheryl alright, is she? Declan and Padraig?"

"Nothing's happened." Brendan turned back to him and shot him a glance that Macca recognised, from hard experience, as a warning to shut the fuck up.

"I'll be glad to get out, anyway," Macca said, changing the subject. "The food in here's like school dinners, I can't eat half of it. Good for my waistline, though, eh Brendan?"

"There's nothing of you, son." Brendan studied him for a moment, then rubbed his eyes. "I can't stop, I've got..."

His voice trailed off as he stood to go.

"Thanks for coming, Bren."

"You're... you're alright, aren't you, kid? After everything I... You're alright, yeah?"

Brendan seemed suddenly, startlingly vulnerable, and Macca's heart went out to him. He reached and took his hand, just for a second because any longer would be too risky. Brendan looked as if he was about to say something, but changed his mind and left.

It wasn't until he had gone that Macca registered that the knuckles on Brendan's left hand had been red. Jesus. He'd hit someone, hadn't he? Was that what the signs of distress were about? Macca saw it now, as clearly as anything: Brendan had punched someone, because he was fucking them.

:::::::

By the time Brendan got back to A&E, Stephen had seen the doctor. His injury wasn't too bad: one cracked rib, possibly two; no treatment necessary, just painkillers.

There was a parking ticket on the windscreen when they got back to the car, but it barely bothered Brendan as he helped Stephen into his seat. They drove back to the village; Brendan asked him if he was okay a couple of times, and got a nod in response.

In the club, Brendan had to tell Cheryl that they'd been to hospital.

"Why, what happened? Will someone tell me what's going on, please?"

"Better tell her," Brendan urged Stephen. "Go on."

Stephen began to tell the mugging story. Brendan patted him on the shoulder: he was a good boy, good as gold. He was falling in with Brendan's version of events, and now that he'd got the message, it would be easy to put this behind them, wouldn't it?

Stephen's phone slipped out of his hand. As he bent to pick it up off the floor, he let out a cry of pain that shocked Brendan.

"Okay, we need to get him in the office, yeah?"

"No!" Stephen looked terrified, and pleaded to go home.

"Yeah, yeah, course." Brendan let him go with Cheryl.

Fuck, he didn't need to be so scared. What had happened, it was still raw, and the kid hadn't had a chance yet to work out that Brendan wouldn't hurt him again. There would be no need, not if he'd learnt his lesson.


	15. Chapter 15

Cheryl had told Stephen that he should take as much time off as he needed to get over the attack that had left him with a cracked rib. The _mugging_.

That was fine, Brendan could see that; he wouldn't be much use at work until the pain died down, and maybe it would do him good to have a bit of space. Only, the days were dragging on.

Brendan had to have him. To fuck him. What they'd done in the cellar, Stephen might be able to dismiss – with a bit of distance – as an experiment, something that he'd tried out in a one-off moment of weakness. He might even blame Brendan for it. The thought of what Stephen now knew about him, about what he did, created in Brendan a low thrum of panic: he had to make the boy a collaborator in this, or he risked being exposed by him. Fucking him would join them together, and seal his ownership. And Christ, he wanted to: he was tormented by the sense memory of the boy's smooth skin beneath his fingertips, and the heat of his breath.

:::::::

He saw Amy in the village with her kids. It was early, not quite eight; Brendan had gone out to get something for breakfast, because Cheryl was so distracted by this sick friend of hers that she hadn't got around to doing any shopping.

Amy was struggling. The little one was crying, and the older one – Leah, was it? – was running along some way ahead of her mother, who was shouting at her to come back. Brendan stopped as the little girl came towards him, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her back to Amy.

"Thanks." Amy looked embarrassed.

"They're a handful at that age. My boys, they were always running off."

"Thanks, Brendan," Amy said, and smiled this time.

"How's young Stephen doing?"

"Getting better, I'm sure he'll be back at work in a day or two." She sounded anxious, as if she thought Brendan was checking up on them. "We appreciate that you're, you know, still paying him while he's off. We wouldn't manage otherwise."

Brendan's heart went out to her. He remembered how it felt being young and poor and not knowing where next month's rent was going to come from.

"He's a good lad. Where you off to with these two little monsters, Amy?"

"Child minder. I can't miss any more college, and Ste can't look after them on his own, not while he can't even pick them up."

"Here." Brendan pulled his money from his pocket, and held two twenties out to Amy. "Towards the child minder."

"No, Brendan, I can't..."

"Yeah you can. To make up for the tips Stephen's missing out on." He paused. "I know what it's like. Please. For the kids, yeah?"

Amy took the notes, and thanked him. She looked as if she might cry, and hurried off.

Brendan watched her go, then went and let himself into the empty club. He bought a packet of condoms from the machine in the men's toilets, locked up, and set off towards the council flats.

:::::::

As he got to Stephen's front door, it opened.

"Boo."

Stephen's face was a mixture of fear and confusion.

"I... I was just going out."

"Change of plan." Brendan pushed past him into the flat. He walked around, opening each door to check every room; he knew Amy was out, but his actions had the effect of further unnerving Stephen, who stood mute and wary.

Brendan asked what was going on, why Stephen had been off work for a week. The boy's voice was quiet when he answered to confirm what Brendan already knew: that he'd been worried about what Brendan might do.

Brendan stood squarely in front of him.

"Let's get one thing straight. You asked for that, didn't you?" He waited for a response. "Didn't you?"

There was a flicker of rebellion as Stephen denied that he'd asked to be beaten up, and then: "I just thought that you wanted me to kiss you."

Wanted him to? Jesus, if he only knew.

"You crossed the line, Stephen. I say when and where. Not you. Understand?" He could almost hear the wheels turning in the boy's head as he tried to make this make sense. Brendan repeated slowly, "Do you understand?"

"Yeah."

Almost there.

"And?"

"What?"

Brendan smiled, as if what he was saying was obvious.

"Well I mean, you can see why I lost my temper. Yeah?"

"I'm sorry." The last traces of a fight-or-flight instinct had left Stephen; he was defeated.

Brendan patted his arm.

"S'okay." He went and poured himself a glass of water; he needed to think for a moment. He still wasn't sure if they were at a point where, if he made a move, the boy would be responsive. He drained the glass, and turned to find Stephen still standing there. He'd made no attempt to leave, so...

"Come here." Nothing, just a look of apprehension on the boy's face. "Stephen, I said come here."

This time Stephen edged towards him as if he'd calculated that, if he was going to get a beating, it might be better for him if he did what he was told.

Brendan hooked a finger into the neck of Stephen's shirt, and pulled him the last foot or two until there was no distance between them, and kissed him lightly on the lips. Stephen didn't respond, but didn't resist either. Poor kid looked bewildered.

"Everything okay? You want me to stop?" And he would stop: he would stop if he believed this boy didn't want it to happen. Brendan wanted him, but needed to be wanted back.

He saw a glimmer of what he'd seen in Stephen's expression in the cellar last week when they'd kissed; and it intensified. Stephen's hand came up to rest on the back of Brendan's neck, and he kissed him. It was like coming home.

He pushed Stephen's jacket off, then half dragged, half carried him to his bedroom. They both undressed: it was quicker than undressing each other. Brendan shoved Stephen onto the unmade bed. There was a cry of pain from the boy at the impact, which stopped Brendan with a jolt. The curtains were closed, and Brendan switched on the bedside lamp to look at the bruise on Stephen's ribs; it didn't look too bad, but the rib must be far from healed. Brendan knelt on the bed and kissed the mark, his lips lingering there softly until Stephen shifted, and took Brendan's face in his hands, and kissed him again.

For a man who had apparently been having sex since he was a schoolboy, Stephen was oddly sexually naïve. He seemed amazed to find that Brendan was everywhere about him, unbounded, with his hands and lips and teeth and tongue. Stephen gasped not just with pleasure, but with surprise. And he giggled: the boy was ticklish, and Brendan found himself thinking this was _charming_. Fuck. Must be getting sentimental in his old age.

He rolled Stephen over so he was face down; spread his legs and knelt between them. Stephen began to scramble away.

"What you doing, Brendan?"

Brendan moved forward to lie on Stephen's back.

"I'm not gonna do anything you don't want me to do," he breathed into the boy's ear. "I promise. Okay?"

He slid down again, his lips tracing all the way from the nape of Stephen's neck to the small of his back, and heard him begin to giggle. It was disconcerting: Brendan had never faced that reaction before. He stopped what he was doing.

"What's so funny?"

Stephen craned his neck around to look at him.

"Nothing. It's just your moustache, innit, it feels all - "

"Fucksake, kid." Brendan put his palms on Stephen's arse cheeks, and parted them, then licked down from the base of his spine to his hole, and heard an _Oh!_ of surprise. To Brendan's relief, the giggles turned to gasps.

He took his time, aware of Stephen's quickening breathing, and excited by his moans. He varied what he did with his tongue, flattening it to lick broadly up and down; teasing with short, hard flicks; pushing in, and feeling the muscles contracting against him. He made him thoroughly wet with saliva.

Maybe Stephen was ready now: Brendan sure was. He got up and looked for his jacket, which was on the floor; he got the condoms from its pocket and quickly rolled one on, then got back into bed.

"Is it gonna hurt?" Stephen looked at Brendan from under those Bambi eyelashes of his, now with a mixture of trepidation and trust that made him feel... Well, whatever it was, Brendan instinctively circled him with his arms, pulled him against his chest and hugged him.

"You'll be alright with me." He kept on hugging until Stephen's heart wasn't pounding so hard, and he could no longer feel him trembling.

Then he laid Stephen on his back and began to work his way down his body, exploring its tastes and textures. His lips brushed the soft hairs in the middle of his chest and the hard little nipples. He dipped his tongue into his belly button, but Stephen's squirming got so much that Brendan got annoyed.

"Stephen, are you gonna stop wriggling?"

"Yeah, if you're gonna stop tickling."

Cheeky little bastard. Brendan opened his jaws and bit down hard on the tattoo on Stephen's hip. There, that didn't tickle.

In response to the boy's _Ow!_ Brendan gave an apologetic lick where he'd bitten, and looked up at Stephen's face: he was frowning and pouting. For weeks now, every time he'd seen that pout – and he'd seen it frequently – Brendan had wanted to crush those lips with his mouth. And now, there was nothing to stop him. He moved up his body again and kissed him hard, and felt his mouth warm and wet and yielding.

No more waiting. Brendan licked his fingers and felt his way between Stephen's legs and into him. It was a shame they had no lube, that would have helped. There was probably something around that they could use: Stephen had kids, so there'd be vaseline and such, but Brendan didn't want to suggest it in case Stephen's working class puritanism kicked in and he went all squeamish on him. It was a lubricated condom, anyway: and that and a lot of spit would have to do.

And when at last it came to it, it was like a dream.

Brendan positioned himself and entered him, gradually and as gently as he could. Stephen winced, and his eyes widened. Then his head went back and his back arched off the bed.

"Oh, fuck!" He was a screamer, this one. Brendan scraped his teeth over Stephen's Adam's apple.

Stephen grabbed hold of Brendan's head and pulled them together, their mouths clashing as they found their rhythm. Brendan was surprised by the strength of this boy, his hands firm on Brendan's arms and back and arse.

They both came at once, more or less, and stayed tangled together as they recovered.

:::::::

Brendan had imagined it would be something like with Vinnie: he'd been a skinny little bugger, nervous as a faun, and his first time was traumatic for him. But Stephen wasn't like that, it turned out; and nor was he like Macca, worldly and licentious, challenging Brendan to push his boundaries further and further. Christ, he didn't want to be thinking about Macca now, lying in a hospital bed as Brendan lay with his new lover.

Stephen was something different: he showed a kind of trust that Brendan knew he didn't deserve, and an openness that was so far outside Brendan's understanding that he tried to repress any deeper examination of it. All he knew for sure, as he drifted into sleep, was that Stephen belonged to him now, for as long as he wanted him.


	16. Chapter 16

He should go now.

He picked up his watch from the bedside table, and it confirmed what his stomach was telling him: it was lunchtime. He hadn't had any breakfast, because there'd been no food in the house, and it was when he'd gone out to get some that he'd run into Amy. He'd found out from her that Stephen was home alone. And then he'd come straight round here, because he'd had to have him.

And now he'd had him, and it had been everything he had fantasised about and more; and now, he should go.

He didn't know when Amy was due back, but he guessed it might not be long. That was one reason why he ought to get away. The main reason, though, was that he'd done what he'd set out to do: he'd fucked the boy, cementing his ownership of him. This boy here, the one who was fast asleep beside him, his eyelashes casting feathery shadows on his cheeks from the bedside lamp. It was broad daylight outside, but the curtains were closed, and the room felt secluded and separate, and the real world felt a million miles away.

Brendan gently extricated his arm from under Stephen's neck, and got up quietly. He pulled on his boxers and went to the bathroom, and then to the kitchen where he poured a glass of water. He took it back to Stephen's room, and found him sitting up in bed. He'd put a T-shirt on.

Brendan took a couple of gulps of water, and handed the glass to Stephen.

"Here."

"Ta."

"You alright?" Brendan tried to sound casual, but he needed him to be alright, not to regret what they'd done and be turned off it.

"Think so."

Not exactly a rave review, but still, at least he didn't look freaked.

Brendan pulled on his jeans. The boy watched him.

"Going somewhere?" Stephen took a sip from the glass.

"We can hardly stay here, can we? Amy might be back."

_We._ Fuck. Where had that come from? It was Brendan that was going, like he always did. There was no _we._

Stephen was still looking at him.

"Right, so, going to the club then?"

Fuck it.

"No. No, I'm going to mine. Cheryl's away all night, so..." He combed his fingers through Stephen's hair, and stroked his face, and held his chin for a moment. Fuck it, where was the harm? "You wanna?"

Stephen's smile struck Brendan as the kind you usually only saw on children, before life had knocked the joy out of them. The boy sent the bed cover flying as he jumped up and flung himself at Brendan, arms around his neck, body pressed close.

"That's a yes, is it?"

"Yes." Stephen's voice was muffled against Brendan's chest. Brendan ran his hands down his back, and – oh – he'd _only_ put on a T-shirt, he realised, as he cradled his lover's smooth, slightly downy bum in his hands. Shit, he was going to have to take him again here and now if he wasn't careful, and then Amy might walk in, and then...

Brendan gave Stephen's arse a squeeze, then slapped it hard with both hands.

"Oi!" Stephen leaned back to look at him, pouting.

Brendan grinned, and kissed him, thrusting his tongue as deep as he could into his mouth. Stephen was his now, he could do what he liked. And the boy responded: the way he seemed to melt into Brendan was something he hadn't come across before.

"I'm off." Brendan stepped away, and finished getting dressed, then dug into his pocket for some cash. "Here, get us a takeaway, bring it round to mine."

"What do you fancy?"

Brendan raised an eyebrow, and enjoyed watching him squirm.

"Surprise me." He paused in the bedroom doorway on his way out. "And Stephen?"

"What?"

He looked at Stephen, standing there with his cock just visible below his T-shirt, and wearing not just that, Brendan saw now, but a pair of socks too.

"Put some pants on."

:::::::

Brendan knew he should really spend a few hours at the club as Cheryl wasn't there, and briefly he considered calling Stephen and telling him not to come round after all. But he felt more alive than he had since leaving Belfast, so he went straight home and waited.

He felt strange, almost nervous now for some reason, and he went upstairs for a quick shower to stop himself pacing the floor. He'd just got his jeans and T-shirt on when Stephen knocked. Brendan let him in without a word, checking for onlookers before he shut the door.

"Erm, I went to the Chinese but I didn't know what you like, or if there's anything you _don't_ like, or... Well, so, anyway, I just got fish and chips." He swallowed. "Is that okay?"

The boy was nervous too, which made Brendan feel better – back in control.

"Yeah." He smiled. "That's okay."

Brendan got a couple of beers from the fridge and opened them; the two men sat at the table and ate the chips out of the paper they were wrapped in.

"Got any ketchup?"

Brendan fetched it, and watched as Stephen drizzled it in a pattern over his chips. He squeezed the bottle like Padraig did: with both hands, and due reverence.

The chips were good. They were hot enough to scald the roof of your mouth, and saltier than was good for your arteries. Brendan was ravenous, and when he'd finished his own share he began to help himself to Stephen's.

"Oi, greedy-guts, hands off."

"Not my fault if you ain't quick enough, son. That why there's no meat on your bones, is it, cos you let people pinch half your dinner?"

Stephen didn't take Brendan's teasing well. He tutted and pouted. Brendan reached across the table and wiped his thumb across the boy's lip, catching a drop of red sauce in the process.

"Sulky little fucker." He licked the ketchup off his thumb. "Mmm."

Stephen smiled then, trying to hide it by shovelling more chips into his mouth.

Brendan finished his beer and went to the bathroom. When he came back, Stephen had cleared away the empty wrappers and bottles. Seeing him here, in this kitchen, Brendan felt suddenly uncomfortable: he always kept his family and his home separated from this thing he did. It was just a physical thing, an itch he had to scratch, and it had no place intruding into his normal life. His stomach tightened. This had been a bad idea, letting this boy come here. He'd have to tell him to get out.

Stephen stretched up to put the sauce bottle into the top cupboard, and his shirt rode up as he did so, exposing an inch or two of his narrow back above his jeans.

Shit.

Brendan's arms were around him from behind before he could help it, his hands pressing into Stephen's belly; he inhaled the boy's scent and kissed the side of his neck.

He loosened his grip to let him turn around. Stephen's mouth was slightly open as he looked up at him, and Brendan could smell the beer on his warm breath, and knew that Stephen could smell it on his. He could tell from the look in the lad's eyes that they were going to fuck again: Brendan wouldn't have to persuade him, didn't need to waste time cajoling him with kisses. But the tip of Stephen's tongue appeared between his lips, and it was impossible to resist.

Brendan tasted a few stray grains of salt as their mouths met; and on Stephen's tongue and deep inside his mouth there was a subtle sweetness. He would taste sweet, wouldn't he?

Get a grip. It was that bloody ketchup wasn't it, not _him._ Get a fucking grip, and get on with it.

Brendan's kiss became harder, and he slid a hand down the back of Stephen's jeans and fingered him. The boy broke away.

He was sore, wasn't he? Course he was, he'd never been buggered until this morning. Shit.

"Maybe you better go."

"D'you _want_ me to go?" Stephen looked disappointed.

No, Brendan didn't want him to go. He hadn't had a shag in months, not til today, and he'd got this boy here so he might as well make the most of it. That must be it, that must be the reason he felt as if his heart was in his mouth.

"I'll run you a bath." Brendan turned away quickly and ran upstairs and turned on the taps.

He was a shower man himself, so he'd never taken much notice of the bottles of potions accumulated by Cheryl and Lynsey. Bubble bath and such. He opened each one in turn and gave it a sniff. The one that didn't smell sickly sweet was an oil: _Relaxing_, it said on the label: that would do. He glugged it into the running water, then went downstairs again.

"It's ready."

"Right." Stephen looked suspicious, and didn't move.

"Stephen. It's ready. Jesus, I'm not gonna drown you in it, it's... it'll relax you, okay? Fucksake."

Stephen walked past Brendan, looking distinctly un-relaxed, and went upstairs.

He gave him a few minutes, then went up. The door wasn't bolted: good. When Brendan walked in, though, Stephen looked startled and drew his knees up and hugged them. His skin was pink from the heat of the water, and rivulets of bath oil clung to his shoulders. The steam had flattened his hair.

They'd only spent one morning in bed together, but already there wasn't an inch of this lad's body that Brendan hadn't seen; so the fact that he looked bashful was amusing.

"What?" Stephen asked.

"Nothing. Here." He dropped a towel on the floor beside the bath, and gathered up Stephen's shoes and clothes. Then he went downstairs, got the boy's jacket from the back of a chair, and took everything into his bedroom.

In a bag in the wardrobe there was a tube of lube, which he'd bought when this thing was still in the planning stage. He put it on the bedside cabinet, together with the two remaining rubbers from the pack he bought this morning. He closed the curtains.

He heard Stephen call, "Brendan?"

"In here."

The towel was wrapped low around Stephen's hips, and a red mark was clearly visible where Brendan had bitten his tattoo a few hours earlier. The oil had burnished his skin, and it was silky to the touch, and the scent was of sandalwood when Brendan breathed it in, and of _him._ To Brendan, he felt so slight in his arms that it was a kind of relief when he felt Stephen's hands grasp his T-shirt decisively: Brendan let him strip it off him, and allowed himself to be pulled into an embrace. The hands that raked his back belonged to a man, not a boy. This was why it was men you had to fuck: women couldn't begin to match you, and couldn't know what you needed, and couldn't take what you needed to do.

Stephen was hard, and Brendan pulled the towel off him and shoved him onto the bed, and gave his cock a few light, light strokes that had him writhing and moaning in frustration. When he'd tormented him enough, Brendan took him slowly into his mouth, gripping his hips firmly to keep him still. It always amazed him, the feel of a cock between his lips and teeth, its skin delicate against his tongue, the confusion of vulnerability and power. He hadn't done this often enough. And with this particular lad it was rewarding: Stephen's groans and cries and _Fuck! Brendan!_ as he came, were arousing and affirming.

Brendan knelt up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned over Stephen and kissed him. Then he got off the bed and stripped off his jeans and boxers, tore open a condom and rolled it on.

Stephen bit his lip as Brendan eased a couple of lubricated fingers inside him. Brendan stopped.

"You okay with this?"

Stephen nodded.

Not enough. Brendan waited. The boy looked puzzled; maybe even frightened. Then his eyes half closed, and there was an almost-smile as he got it, and said it.

"I want you."

"Good lad."

Brendan kissed him, and gave him what he wanted.

:::::::

He'd only slept with Macca once. Fallen asleep, yes, plenty of times, in between fucks or afterwards; but only one whole night in all that time. That was when he'd read in the paper that Vinnie had been killed in a car crash, and he'd gone round to Macca's because how could he be at home with Eileen and the boys, and hide from them the shock he felt? That must have been what that feeling was, shock: he'd felt eviscerated, the loss he'd brought upon himself turned, suddenly, to a loss imposed on him for ever. So he'd gone to Macca, and Macca had given him whiskey and taken him to bed and tried to make him forget, not knowing what was wrong but helping anyway.

He used to sleep with Vinnie, though. Vincent. Working in Liverpool, away from home, Brendan had a flat to himself, so he had been able to let the boy spend the night sometimes. Not always: often, he would put him in a taxi when they were done. But sometimes, Brendan had wanted to feel Vincent's warm body against him when he woke in the night, and listen to his slow breaths, in and out, in and out. There was a comfort to it; that was the thing he'd always enjoyed with Eileen, knowing that she was his to protect. But unlike with Eileen, when he felt Vincent press closer to him in the night, and felt his tentative kisses, Brendan felt no weight of expectation or shudder of inadequacy.

So when he woke in the night and Stephen wasn't beside him, and then he saw him standing by the bed and putting on a T-shirt because he felt cold, Brendan told him to come back to bed. And next time he woke up, the boy was there, nestled under his arm, awake too.

"S'alright, innit." Stephen must have been awake a while, thinking.

"Mm?"

"When it's just you and me."

Brendan looked at him but didn't answer, and turned away. Stephen had forgotten, had he? Forgotten that it was _just you and me_ in the cellar a week ago when Brendan had punched him so hard he'd cracked a rib.

"I'm just saying." Stephen took hold of Brendan's hand as if it was a natural thing to do.

It _was_ alright, right now, on their own here on the edge of sleep. Brendan had no energy for putting Stephen in his place: that could wait, and maybe if this boy worked out the rules, there'd never have to be bruises and blood and tears and fear. If he'd just keep quiet.

Brendan sighed.

"You know what, Stephen? You talk too much. Something needs to shut you up."

"What?" He frowned up at Brendan.

Brendan pulled him in for a kiss, then shushed him with a finger on his lips.

He needed him gone before morning, obviously, but Stephen checked the time and it was only two thirty. So he would let him stay a little longer – where was the harm? Even though Brendan had no more use for him, not tonight. Sleep now, that was all he wanted, and this lad might as well be here, warm and gently breathing by his side.


	17. Chapter 17

If Cheryl hadn't called out to him when she got home this morning; or if he'd been more deeply asleep and hadn't heard her; or if she had come straight into his bedroom without warning, his life would have been shattered.

Brendan felt sick just imagining it, and angry with himself for being stupid enough to let Stephen stay, instead of telling him to go when he was done with him. Some demon in his head had made him want the boy to sleep beside him, and it confused him. It wasn't as if he needed the company: his loneliness since the collapse of his marriage was nothing compared with the despair he used to feel in the early years with Eileen, when he could see no end to the half-life he'd fallen into. He had learnt to deal with it: he'd had to, his wife and kids depended on him, and he loved them. And then the chance to live away from home had come along, and with it, Vinnie; and the desperation had lifted.

That time had shown Brendan a way to manage, and when it was over with Vinnie and he'd gone back to live with Eileen and the boys, he'd taken up with Macca. And when he'd left Macca too, Brendan had known he would find a replacement, and Stephen was it. But somehow he had forgotten his own rules, and the boy was still there when Cheryl got back. It was okay, Stephen had hidden down beside the bed where Cheryl couldn't see him, and had sneaked out of the house while Brendan distracted her; but he was consumed by the thought of what could have happened.

His sister would despise him. If she knew he was the kind of man who did those things, how could she not? She would stop looking up to him; maybe throw him out. Maybe even tell their dad – and Christ, the old man would have plenty to say, and wouldn't hold back on saying it. He'd relish finding out that his predictions were right, that his son was a bad one, a fake, not man enough.

Cheryl had been upset over her friend who she'd stayed over with, the one with cancer; and about Lynsey getting off with Malachy behind her back. Brendan had comforted her as best he could while Stephen crept out through the back door, and she'd said to him, _Don't change. Please, don't change_... She couldn't ever know that he wasn't the man she thought he was, it would break her.

Brendan couldn't take any more chances: he had to remember from now on, Stephen was just another tight little arse and willing mouth, and in future he wouldn't let him hang around once he'd had his fill of him.

:::::::

The visit from Brendan a week or so ago had played on Macca's mind ever since. Brendan had seemed odd – odder than usual – and Macca was convinced it was more than just his aversion to hospitals. He'd been agitated, and there was a moment when he'd been almost apologetic for the things he'd done, as if he needed to know that Macca had got through it all. Of course, this being Brendan, nothing was clear, so Macca was just surmising. But the conclusion he kept coming back to was that Brendan had done to someone else what he'd done so many times to Macca: he'd beaten up a lover.

The redness on his knuckles had been a bit of a giveaway, but that could have come from any kind of scrap. No, it was Brendan's demeanour that led Macca to believe he'd hit someone he was fucking: he'd seen him like that before, his emotions spiking under his skin and fighting to escape.

Who, though? That was what bugged Macca the most. Maybe it was somebody casual. Brendan worked in a club, so he'd have plenty of opportunities to pick up lads he took a fancy to. Macca tried to convince himself that this was the case, but he knew, when he thought about it, that it was unlikely. A one night stand wouldn't owe Brendan any loyalty after a beating, and might easily go to the police. It was only when you knew him, when you loved him – and loved the sex you had with him, and the feeling he gave you of being wanted like you'd never been wanted before – that you'd give him another chance. So, it must be a new boyfriend. It wasn't even three months since Brendan had left Belfast, so he'd moved on pretty quickly; but then again, he'd got with Macca within a few weeks of leaving that lad he'd had in Liverpool, so changing boyfriends wasn't much of a challenge for him.

Macca had only been in the village a matter of days before he'd been hospitalised, so he hadn't met a lot of people in Brendan's circle, but there was one who stood out. Ste. It had crossed his mind when he'd first met him, because of the way Ste had asked him questions about Brendan and seemed almost jealous that Macca knew him better than he did. But he'd dismissed it, because Ste was into girls. Only now, other things were falling into place: the way Brendan had kept turning to look at him and Ste when they'd had a drink together during that student play. Brendan had been sitting with Cheryl, but it seemed like every time Macca glanced at him, Brendan was checking up on them. And then, when Brendan had told Macca to walk with him, and they'd gone and sat in the park, Brendan's mask had slipped just for a second when Macca had told him that he was staying at Ste's place. That was what had decided Brendan to attack him, it was obvious now. He'd moved on to Ste, and wanted Macca out of the way.

Macca was sure the two of them hadn't slept together back then: Ste was excited by Brendan, and curious, but from what Macca could tell, he'd had no idea that Brendan was gay. That was weeks ago, though, so anything could have happened since then.

He ought to be glad that some other guy was on the receiving end of Brendan's craziness now, but instead, the thought of him with another man filled Macca with despair. And when his phone rang and it was Brendan's name on the screen, he wished he could ignore it, but he couldn't.

"Brendan?"

"Macca. You gone yet?"

"What? No. No, I'm still in the hospital, I wouldn't go without tell - "

"You said a week. That was a week ago. The fuck's going on?"

"I said they _hoped_ I'd be out in a week, Bren, it wasn't for definite. I had a bit of a setback, see."

"Meaning?" Brendan sounded exasperated.

"I got an infection in my lung. The one that was punctured, you know? They won't let me out til it's better."

There was a pause, and when Brendan spoke again his voice was kinder.

"That's... I'm sorry to hear that. What's the treatment, antibiotics, yeah?"

"And physio."

"But you're getting better, son, yeah? Be out soon."

"You really can't wait, can you? Get me out of the country so, what? So you can get on with - "

"How much longer, Macca?"

"I don't know."

"Call me when you're leaving. I'll give you the money for the air fare."

"You can't make me go," Macca responded.

There was a moment's pause, then Brendan ended the call.

:::::::

There was no way Brendan was going to let Stephen get like Macca and forget who set the rules. That phone call was a useful reminder. He would see how Stephen was when he came to the club for his shift: he needed him afraid or ashamed, then he'd be easy to control.

No point waiting. Brendan sent him a text: _Need you to start shift earlier – 20 mins?_ He didn't get a reply, but exactly twenty minutes later, Stephen walked into the club.

"Glad you could come at short notice."

"Course." Stephen took hold of the lapels of Brendan's jacket, and looked up at him in that provocative way of his. "Couldn't keep me away."

He seemed to think something had changed just because they'd slept together: that he was now somehow licensed to make the first move. Well, he was wrong. Brendan peeled the boy's hands off him, instructed him to get to work, and left him to get on with it.

:::::::

Better see if he'd got the message from the cold shoulder.

Brendan caught up with Stephen when he'd finished bringing the delivery in from the yard to the cellar.

"Drink?" Brendan opened a beer and held it out to him with a smile. "Think you deserve a break."

"Yeah, ta."

As Stephen took the bottle, his hand touched Brendan's, as Brendan knew it would, then he leaned up for a kiss, as Brendan knew he would.

"Stop. What the hell d'you think you're doing?"

"Sorry, I just thought - "

"What did I say about - "

"Hi guys..."

Amy. Fuck.

The girl had come to give Stephen his phone, which he'd left at home.

"... In case someone special calls."

What the fuck did she mean by that? As soon as she'd gone, Brendan looked at Stephen waiting for an explanation. Stephen went into defensive mode: Amy hadn't seen anything, she would have said something if she had.

"For your sake, Stephen, I hope you're right, yeah?" Brendan didn't want to dish out another lesson, but he would if he had to.

The boy nodded, and retreated; Brendan watched him put the beer bottle to his lips, tilt back his head, and swallow. Jesus.

Brendan left the cellar. He couldn't let himself cave in, not this soon.

:::::::

He kept an eye on Stephen throughout his shift. Serving behind the bar or moving around collecting glasses, there was an ease about him with the punters, a lack of front. It was only when he caught sight of Brendan looking at him, that his face became shaded with uncertainty. He must have worked out by now where he stood, but there'd be no harm in making it clear to him what he was _for_. Brendan would get him into the office and onto his knees, and get into his mouth. No kisses, no foreplay. Brendan wouldn't use sex as a punishment – he'd never done that – but a brisk, uninvolved encounter would clarify their terms.

"Leaving without saying goodbye, Stephen?"

Brendan intercepted Stephen as he headed for the exit. He looked scared.

"No. Erm, yeah, but, I've gotta get off, Amy's had the kids all day, so..."

"Quick word in the office before you go, if you wouldn't mind." Brendan strode off, knowing that he would be followed; and he was.

Stephen stopped in the doorway of the tiny room. Brendan gestured him to come in.

"Shut the door, there's a good lad."

Stephen did as he was asked, but Brendan noticed that his hand stayed hovering over the handle.

"Brendan, what happened before, Amy didn't see what I was gonna do."

Brendan approached him, standing close enough to feel the heat coming off his body.

"And what _were_ you gonna do?"

"You know." Stephen blushed.

"Remind me."

"I was gonna..."

Brendan raised an eyebrow, and waited for him to continue.

"...Kiss you."

As Stephen's lips formed the words, Brendan was on him, biting at him, pressing him against the door. It took only a moment for the boy to switch from hesitation to confidence, his hands in Brendan's hair, avid and assured. It was disconcerting, the feeling that somehow Stephen was driving this thing almost as much as he was. Brendan needed to hold on to the power.

He got hold of Stephen's wrists and pinned them to the door in a position of surrender, conscious of the boy's pulses fluttering in his grip. He took half a step back so that their bodies no longer touched, and looked at his face, and saw his lips part in anticipation. Then Brendan surrendered too, and kissed him, and kissed him.


	18. Chapter 18

For a few moments after he woke up, Brendan thought that all of it had been a dream. Him and Stephen in a pitch-black room, with the walls closing in on them and pressing coldly on their backs, forcing them together, skin against skin, mouth on mouth: that was a dream. Then the rest of it, the part that wasn't a dream, began to come into focus, and he found himself recalling every detail of what they'd done in the office last night.

Every taste and smell and sound and sensation came at him like an assault, and he was tempted to get out of bed, have a shower, get busy – anything to fight it off. Those things were meant to be a fix that you got for yourself when you needed fixing, and discarded until you needed fixing again. Except this time, Brendan wanted to remember.

His intention had been to get Stephen into the office and down on his knees, to assert that it was Brendan who decided when and where, Brendan who could pick him up as easily as he could drop him. But it hadn't worked out like that. Despite the club still being open, and punters and staff just the other side of that door, they'd got swept away. It was Stephen's fault: the way he was made, all gawky angles and soft skin that begged to be touched, eyes and lips designed to provoke – these things compelled Brendan to want him. And Stephen had wanted him back alright, and kissed him back, and Brendan had held him there with his wrists pinned against the door, and the boy hadn't cared that he was just being used. Hadn't seemed to, anyway: when Brendan let go, he hadn't run away, he'd looked at Brendan and asked, _You got the key for this?_ Practical, at any rate. And Brendan had fished in his pocket for the office key, and what do you know? He'd found a condom too that he'd put there just in case, knowing that the possibility of sex was always going to be there, now that Stephen belonged to him.

So Stephen had locked the door, and by the time Brendan had unbuckled and unzipped, and put on the rubber, and unbuttoned his shirt, the boy had stripped down to his socks. Looking at him, with his skinny little body, and his cock standing out straight, Brendan had laughed, and the boy had reddened: _What's so funny?_ And Brendan had found himself being kind. _I ain't laughing __at__ you, kid. It's just... your clarity of purpose._ Then Stephen had looked baffled, so Brendan had stopped talking and kissed him instead, and backed him against the door again, and hoisted him up so his legs clung round Brendan's waist and his arms around his neck.

Then, a rush of recollections: the manoeuvring and copious spit it had taken to get inside him; Stephen's cries so loud that Brendan had feared they'd be heard over the thumping music in the bar; telling him, _Shut the fuck up will you?_ then Stephen burying his face against his neck to muffle his noise; Brendan's fingers and thumbs digging into his lover's thighs as he held him up and thrust harder and harder into his body; the door rattling on its hinges as Stephen's back bashed against it; biting down on the boy's shoulder to distract himself, because he wanted to feel Stephen come first; Stephen's body convulsing as he spilled over Brendan's stomach; the sound of him whimpering and the feel of his damp breath.

Stephen had dressed quickly afterwards; maybe he'd realised that there didn't need to be any fuss around this. He'd unlocked the door and handed the key to Brendan. Brendan had asked him, _You're alright, yeah?_ because he hadn't been rough with him before, not when they were fucking. Stephen had nodded and smiled, and then Brendan had combed the boy's hair with his fingers to make him presentable, and kissed him once more – or had Stephen kissed him? That was the one detail he couldn't remember.

He got out of bed, and went for a shower.

:::::::

Brendan felt relaxed at work; he was beginning to think that Stephen knew the score now, and wouldn't cause him any trouble. They could exchange glances, and Brendan could tease him in front of the other staff, and it felt like foreplay. He even wound him up in front of Amy, when he found her chatting to Stephen in the yard while the lad was supposed to be working. Brendan asked her who was the real dad of her kids, because Stephen didn't have enough lead in his pencil. Stephen retaliated with some crack about Brendan not really having kids at all, just getting pictures off the internet to fool people. And all the time, unable to look away from those impudent eyes and that pliable body, all Brendan could think about was fucking him.

He was almost sure that Stephen was thinking the same, apart from a nagging anxiety about Amy. Whenever Brendan saw them together, whether they were jawing or bickering or just _being_, they seemed so fucking coupley it was hard to believe their past really was in the past. When Stephen came back inside, Brendan took him a coffee down in the cellar, and asked him about Amy as he worked. The boy was adamant that there was nothing between them any more, but Brendan pressed him: he wanted to be sure.

"Come on, don't tell me you haven't been tempted to pick it up where you left off, eh?"

"I've moved on."

"I'm glad to hear it." Brendan kissed him, and after the moment's hesitation that always seemed to happen, Stephen kissed him back.

It was early November, and the boy had got cold working outside in the yard. Brendan registered Stephen's hand like ice against his neck, and the heat of their tongues together; and then footsteps, and out of the corner of his eye in the doorway, Amy, and then more footsteps as she fled up the stairs.

He broke away from Stephen. Seeing him – seeing them both – suddenly through Amy's eyes, he felt exposed and disgusted.

"What's the matter?" Stephen was oblivious.

"Shouldn't you be getting down the cash & carry?"

"I thought - "

"Why don't you do as I say, Stephen?" Brendan couldn't stand the sight of him. It was sick, what this boy wanted from him, what he made Brendan feel, like some kind of contagion. He yelled at him to go, and he did, thank Christ – resentfully though, dragging his feet. Stephen would have to be punished, but later: if Brendan started to batter him now, feeling like this, he might never stop.

First things first. He'd have to speak to Amy, find out how much she'd seen, judge whether she was likely to spread it around. He wouldn't threaten her, not if he could charm her into compliance; although he would if he had to. He just needed to know.

:::::::

By the time Amy got home, Brendan had almost caught up with her; he hung back, not wanting to have this out in public, then as soon as she let herself in, he knocked on the door.

He'd play nicely, at least until he got a sense of what she was thinking: no point setting her off.

"We need to have a little chat, Amy." He went in.

She made tea, and Brendan watched her. She didn't look angry or appalled; just a bit awkward. It was puzzling. He waited until they were sitting down before he broached the subject of her spying on them.

She denied it.

"Ste, he mentioned he'd been seeing someone, and then this morning there was just something about the way you two were getting on..."

Brendan tried to process what she was telling him: that it was fine, that his secret was safe, that she was _pleased_ for him and Stephen. It couldn't be true, how could she think a thing like that was fine? But he couldn't work out what her real agenda could be. Then she got up from her seat and hugged him. Jesus.

He finished his tea and took the cup and saucer to the kitchen sink.

"You're a bright girl, Amy. You can appreciate, I... I'm a married man, and any rumours that start floating about... well, you're the only one that knows. So I'll know where the rumours started, won't I?"

"I told you I won't say anything." There was a surprising touch of steel in the girl. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt Ste."

Brendan nodded, and headed for the door.

"Tea was nice, by the way."

:::::::

He walked swiftly back to the club, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler from behind the bar before shutting himself in the office.

He'd wanted to appear calm to the girl, unbothered, so as not to scare her into blabbing what she'd called his _secret_ to anyone. Instead, he knew he had come across as manic, and couldn't begin to guess what her next move would be as a result.

Brendan poured a drink and downed it in one. It seared his throat, acting like a slap around the face to focus his thoughts. And it came down to Stephen, didn't it? Stephen had been talking: _He mentioned he'd been seeing someone_, Amy had said. What the fuck had the boy told her, to make her realise it was Brendan and think it was a nice little bit of mawkish intrigue – to make her _pleased_ for them? All Amy was guilty of was having a head full of catch-all romanticism. No, it was all down to the boy and his big mouth; Brendan would have to knock some sense into him.

He shut his eyes. The memory of last night crashed into his head again, and for a moment he was convinced that this room still smelled of sex. He reasoned with himself that it was just his imagination, and poured another drink, swirling the spirit around in the glass to release its pungent scent. He breathed it in, and willed his hands to stop shaking: get a grip, and do what had to be done.

Brendan held the last gulp of whiskey in his mouth for half a minute or more; he thought he could still taste the boy's kiss on his tongue, and needed to burn it away.

:::::::

He was down in the cellar when Stephen got back from the cash & carry. The boy was acting like he'd done nothing wrong; he didn't know that Brendan had found out he'd been shooting his mouth off.

Stephen began to tell him how the girl at the cash & carry fancied him and had him a discount on the invoice for the supplies.

Brendan hit him. A punch in the gut. There was no room for second thoughts. Stephen had crossed a line, and if Brendan went soft on him now, what kind of a man would that make him? He avoided the ribs, though: he didn't want another trip to A&E.

He caught Stephen as he fell, and held his head. The boy's face was contorted with pain and shock.

Brendan told him he'd had a conversation with Amy.

"She's really happy for us both. Isn't that sweet? Isn't it?" He got no answer: maybe he hadn't made himself clear enough, so he jabbed his fist into Stephen's stomach again. "Shut her up, or I'll do it for you. Okie dokie."

Job done. Brendan let him drop to the floor, and left him there to sort himself out.

Up in the bar, the hum of voices and the rhythmic booming of the music felt like a wall that Brendan had to smash his way through. He made his way to the exit and stood outside, shivering as the cold air hit his clammy skin.

Stephen would understand that he'd had to do what he'd done. There were rules, they both knew that, and one of them was that nobody could know what Brendan did to him: not the sex, and not the punishment. Amy knew about the sex now, and that was down to Stephen, so he'd had to pay the price. He'd sulk about it, course he would – Brendan could imagine how he would slouch around, with that betrayed look in his eyes, and that resentful pouting mouth of his – but he'd be back before his bruises had faded.


	19. Chapter 19

Brendan had every intention of smoothing things over with Stephen the next day. He would make him understand that when he'd punched him, he viewed it as a conclusion to the matter. Stephen had made a big mistake in telling Amy that he'd started seeing a man, even though he hadn't mentioned it was Brendan: the sly little bitch had crept up on them and found that out for herself. But Stephen had taken his punishment for his part in it now, and Brendan thought they could get back to normal. Only, Stephen hadn't learnt his lesson.

Brendan discovered this when Amy came to see him in the club, before Stephen was due in to work, mouthing off about the state of the lad. Brendan assumed that she'd noticed that Stephen was feeling a bit rough this morning – he would be, wouldn't he, he'd been hit hard – so he made some crack about a hangover. But no: she'd seen the bruises on him. Fuck. That boy just couldn't help it, could he? He didn't seem to realise that he didn't have to say, _It's Brendan who fucks me; it's Brendan who hits me,_ for it to be a betrayal. To Amy, or to anyone else for that matter, every little thing was a piece of a puzzle that could eventually be put together.

_He's a barman, not a bouncer,_ Amy said. Brendan's instinct was to come up with a lie, and he did, telling her that Stephen had had to break up a bunch of lairy girls on a hen night. After Amy left, though, it occurred to him that Stephen must have made up an explanation of his own, which Brendan had now contradicted. They should have got their stories straight. Would have done, if Brendan had known that the boy was going to show her his injuries. Now, he'd have to come up with a way of knocking any rumours on the head.

The solution he thought of was obvious. He would get a girlfriend, and so would Stephen. They'd make Amy think it had just been a brief aberration, and throw anyone else off the scent completely.

:::::::

When Stephen arrived at work, Brendan told him he needed a word, and led the way to the cellar. The boy looked defeated, and when Brendan moved to close the door, he flinched.

"What's the matter with you?"

"I just thought that you were gonna..."

Jesus, did he think Brendan was some kind of monster?

"If I hit out, there's a reason." Brendan tried to keep his voice even; no point panicking him. "But I don't have a reason. Do I?"

"No."

Little liar. Stephen couldn't even look at him, so Brendan made him, tilting his chin up with his hand, and told him about Amy's visit, her fishing for answers. Then he told him to ask Rae out.

It was only a few weeks ago that Stephen had been following that girl around like a puppy, but now, he seemed amazed at Brendan's suggestion.

"I thought that we were - "

"What? You thought what?" What could he possibly imagine this was, this thing that they did together?

"Nothing."

Brendan told him he would get a girl too; Stephen looked close to tears.

"What the fuck do you think this is, Stephen? Hm?"

The boy shook his head, looking at the floor.

"It's..."

"Don't tell me... You're not jealous, are you?"

The life returned to Stephen, as if a switch had been flicked.

"I don't wanna see Rae, I wanna see you." He grabbed at Brendan. "Can't we just tell people what's going on?"

Brendan had thought he would have to seduce Stephen again after his punishing attack yesterday, but here he was, practically begging Brendan to take him back. His desperation was unnerving: how could Brendan hope to control him, when the boy couldn't even control himself? He wrenched Stephen's hands away.

"Hey, nothing – nothing is going on. Now, we both need to get girlfriends because _you_ shot your mouth off, _you_ messed up."

And then Stephen was scared again. Brendan's intensity must have freaked him, and he wanted to get away to the safety of the bar upstairs. But Brendan couldn't let him. He needed to calm him down so that he wouldn't go and do or say anything reckless. But that wasn't all: there was terror in his eyes. Brendan needed to be able to frighten him, that was how it worked with these boys, how it had to be in order to ensure his secret would be kept. But Stephen was looking at him as if he was waiting to be battered: Brendan felt suddenly nauseous. Couldn't the boy see? He'd only hurt him because he'd had to.

"No. No, I don't want you to go..." Brendan touched him, his shoulders, his neck; ran a thumb lightly over the hard ridge of his Adam's apple. "Stephen."

"Sorry, I shouldn't even have said anything..."

The boy wouldn't give Brendan a chance. It was infuriating.

"But you always - " Brendan snapped at him, then fought to rein himself in. He looked at Stephen's lips and touched them gently. "You always do. Just can't keep that mouth shut, can you? I don't wanna have to keep doing this, okay?"

"Then don't."

Fucking little bastard, trying to turn it around so Brendan was to blame. Brendan grabbed hold of his jaw.

"This is your fault - "

And then Amy walked in. She had a genius for timing. Fuck, fuck, fuck. All Brendan could think to do was to spout some line about Stephen needing to toughen up; and then he left them to it.

So now, Amy not only knew that he was fucking her ex, but would realise that he'd been beating him too. Brendan had to admit that this last revelation was his own fault. He'd have to regain the initiative, and quickly.

:::::::

The first step was easy. That student, India, who he'd chatted up once before: she was at the club, and she'd do as well as anyone as a girlfriend. Picking her up was as simple this time as it had been before. It was pathetic, how available she made herself.

Brendan decided to steer clear of Stephen for the rest of his shift, to let the heat out of the situation. He intended to see him the next day, find out if he'd managed to explain things away to Amy; find a way through his fear so he could have him again. His plan was frustrated, though, when in the morning he got a phone call from Cheryl.

"Brendan, you're not gonna believe this. I just had a call from Ste, he wants to quit his job."

Fuck.

"Did he say why?" Brendan held his breath.

"No, not yet. I'm meeting him in Relish in a minute to talk it over. I don't know what's got into him, Bren, I thought he liked working for me. You couldn't come down, could you? He might listen to you."

When Brendan got to the cafe, Cheryl and Stephen were already seated. The boy barely acknowledged him. Brendan wasn't going to plead; just told him to come to the club to pick up his wages. If Stephen thought he was clever enough to play games with Brendan, he was mistaken.

:::::::

It wasn't long before he turned up at the club. Brendan was sitting at the bar; he'd put a few quid in an envelope, but hadn't bothered to check how much pay Stephen was owed, because it wouldn't come to that.

Stephen didn't deny that Amy had put him up to this. He confessed something, though, that came as a shock to Brendan, although he managed to keep his expression neutral: that when he and Amy were together, he used to hit her. It didn't seem possible, that two people could go through a thing like that and emerge as friends.

Brendan dismissed Stephen's attempt to equate what he'd done to Amy with what Brendan had done to him: it wasn't the same, Brendan would never hit a woman.

It didn't take much to get Stephen back onside: a gentle hand on his neck, a bit of reasoning. The problem now was Amy who, the boy said, was going to tell people about them if he didn't leave his job.

:::::::

Stephen started his shift.

Brendan managed to get hold of his phone, and pocketed it; then he left the club and walked to Stephen's flat. He still had the keys that he'd taken from Macca the day that he'd put him in hospital, and he let himself in quietly. He could hear Lucas playing, so he knew Amy must be about; quickly, he picked up the little boy and stood holding him until his mother appeared from another room.

She was afraid, for her children and herself: Brendan could see that. He warned her to keep her nose out, letting her imagination conjour what the consequences might be if she didn't.

:::::::

Back at Chez Chez, he found Stephen stocking the bar with clean glasses.

"I'm glad you changed your mind, Stephen."

"What?"

"About quitting."

"Whatever."

Brendan ignored the surly attitude.

"Women, they always want to call the shots, treat us like kids. Good to see you stand up for yourself: I'm proud of you."

"What am I gonna do though, when she finds out I never quit?"

"No point telling her til you have to. Let her calm down a bit first, yeah?"

"S'pose."

"Good lad. Listen, I'm going into town tonight, thought you might wanna come."

"I'm working though." Stephen nevertheless looked hopeful.

"I'll square it with Cheryl. Finish at eight, we'll leave here then."

Brendan didn't wait for an answer, but went into the office, shut the door, and booked a hotel room for the night.

:::::::

Brendan parked around the corner from the club, and waited for Stephen. The boy appeared, a few minutes late and still in his work clothes, and got into the passenger seat.

"Sorry. I was looking for me phone."

"Here." Brendan fished in his pocket. "You musta left it lying around; someone handed it in."

He had deleted Amy's texts and wiped her voicemail messages, leaving just some missed calls.

"Ta. So, where we going?"

"Chester."

"What is it, you got a meeting or something? Cos I'm not dressed for a night out, me."

"You're fine as you are."

After twenty minutes, they pulled into the hotel's car park. Brendan switched off the engine.

"This where your meeting is, then?" Stephen asked.

"Yeah."

"Who you meeting?"

Brendan unclipped his seatbelt.

"You."

It was dark in the car, but Brendan saw Stephen's eyes flash with indignation.

"You can't just... D'you think I'm just gonna roll over and act like nothing's happened, Brendan?"

"I was kinda hoping so, yeah. Rolling over, mmm..." He saw Stephen's pout turn into an involuntary smile, and kissed him. "Look, we can't go to my place, can we? And we can't go to yours either, the lovely Amy's not exactly my biggest fan... If you don't want this, we can turn round right now and I'll take you home. I mean it, Stephen. You just have to say, and we'll forget it."

This time, it was Stephen who kissed him.

:::::::

Brendan checked in, then joined Stephen in the hotel bar. He scanned the room for anyone who might recognise either of them, but it seemed mainly to be business people there, stopping over on their way to somewhere else, and a few office workers delaying going home to their wives.

They didn't have Irish whiskey, so he bought a large Scotch which he drank in one gulp at the bar, and a couple of bottles of beer which he took over to where Stephen was sitting at a table in the corner.

"There you go."

"Cheers. Amy phoned again."

"Yeah?" Brendan scanned the boy's face.

"I did what you said though, I didn't answer. The battery's died now so..."

"Let's hope she gets the message now then, yeah?"

"She's not the boss of me anyway."

"No, I am."

"Oi!" Stephen grinned. "No you're not. Cheryl is."

They had another beer, then Brendan gave Stephen the room key and told him to go up. He watched him go, then had a second whisky at the bar, fetched his washbag from the car, and followed him up.

He knocked, and Stephen let him in.

"Dead posh this, innit? You wanna see the shower, Bren, it's mega."

It was a low budget hotel room: nothing _posh_ about it. But Stephen was like a kid at Christmas. Brendan pulled him into his arms and kissed him.

"Have a shower if you want. We got all night."

Stephen headed for the bathroom, stopping in the doorway and throwing Brendan a smile.

"You smell of whisky."

His backside in his black work trousers was irresistible, and Brendan tried to follow him but he'd locked the door. Must be force of habit.

When Stephen reappeared, he was wearing one of the hotel's bathrobes.

"How fluffy is this?"

Brendan stroked it.

"Very."

He went for a shower too, dried himself off, and padded naked back into the bedroom. Stephen was perched on the edge of the bed. In the oversized bathrobe, he looked almost fragile.

"You okay with this now?"

Stephen swallowed, then smiled. Brendan pulled him to his feet, kissed him and pushed the robe off him. They fell onto the bed, the boy's hands raking Brendan's wet hair.

When Brendan got up to get a condom and put it on, he glanced at Stephen lying sprawled on the bed, and saw the bruises below his ribcage. His stomach lurched; he turned out the light.

"Thought you liked it with the lights on."

"What, you think I wanna look at a little runt like you, do you?"

"Yeah I do, as it goes. Anyway, at least I haven't got love handles."

"_Love handles?_ You cheeky bastard." Brendan knelt on the bed. Stephen was giggling.

The bruising was still visible in the light from the open bathroom door. Brendan turned Stephen over, so that the reminder of what he'd done to the boy yesterday was out of sight, and lifted him onto all fours. He smoothed on a blob of lube, and entered him slowly from behind, and kept it slow, rocking against him in a languorous rhythm matched by Stephen's gasps and cries. Only when Stephen's body began to tremble did he speed up, and when the boy's arms gave way and he collapsed forwards onto the bed, Brendan held him up by his hips, and came. Then Brendan collapsed too and lay on Stephen's back, panting against his neck. He grasped his lover's outstretched hands, interlocking their fingers, and bit hard into his shoulder. Stephen let him.

:::::::

"Brendan. Bren. Brendan, are you asleep?"

He had been asleep, deeply, but on waking he remembered straight away where he was, and who was with him, as if it wasn't the second night they'd ever spent in bed together but the hundredth.

He managed a grunt in reply. He was tired: the boy had worn him out.

"Brendan? Can we _do_ something?"

Horny little fucker. Brendan could do with five more minutes' sleep, though, so he rolled onto his front and turned his head away. He began to drift off, but became aware of Stephen burrowing under the cover towards the bottom of the bed, then a hand stroking up the back of his thigh and gently squeezing his bum. And then a finger sliding tentatively between the cheeks and finding his arsehole. The finger withdrew, then returned, wet with warm saliva; made a few tiny circles and then eased inside. Fucking hell. Brendan was aware of his own breathing becoming shallow and quick.

Then the finger went away again, and for a moment there was nothing, and then he heard muffled snuffling noises like some little animal, and felt hot breath; Stephen was licking from the back of his balls and up his crack, and filling his hole with spit, and opening him with his tongue, and pushing it inside.

Jesus. Brendan felt his cock straining against the mattress. He wasn't going to spill onto the bed, no way, so he scrambled to turn over and hauled himself up to lean with his shoulders against the headboard.

The boy's head emerged from under the duvet, and Brendan didn't need to tell him what he wanted. Stephen must have been thinking about this since that first time in the cellar when he'd been daunted and clueless. This time he was decisive, holding Brendan's cock firmly and licking the tip from side to side, then taking in as much as he could; sucking, moaning, massaging.

Brendan reached to switch on the bedside lamp, then with his feet he pushed the cover down to the bottom of the bed: he wanted to look at the boy. Stephen was kneeling between his legs, bum in the air. His hair shone in a spectrum of blonds and browns as the light hit its messy angles. In the soft glow of the lamp, the skin on his back looked like velvet. It felt like it too, after Brendan came and watched him swallow, when he dragged Stephen up his body to lie against his chest, and kissed him, and wrapped him in his arms.

:::::::

The thought of having breakfast together at the hotel made Brendan jumpy, so they stopped at a McDonald's on the way back before continuing their journey.

The closer they got to home, the more he felt the weight of reality descending; his responses to Stephen's chatter grew monosyllabic. He pulled up within walking distance of the village.

"You better get out here."

"So nobody sees us together." Stephen stared straight ahead.

"Yeah."

"Bye then." Stephen released his seatbelt and got out of the car.

It had to be like this. They were both men: how could it be any other way? But something about this felt wrong: not what he'd done to this lad in the hotel room, but what he was doing to him now. Christ, at least have the balls to kiss him.

"Stephen." Brendan saw hope in the boy's eyes as he leaned into the car, and something else that seemed impossible and frightening. "Don't be late for work."

By the time Stephen slammed the car door shut, Brendan was speeding away from him.


	20. Chapter 20

Stephen was sulking, apparently.

He hadn't liked being put out of the car on the way back to the village after their night in the hotel: Brendan got that. But what did the boy expect would happen? Arrive at work hand-in-hand? He needed to grow up, and there was no sign of that, not when he darted off on errands for Cheryl when he caught sight of Brendan in the club, and didn't answer his mobile when Brendan tried calling him. Then he disappeared altogether, and it turned out he'd asked Cheryl for the afternoon off. He'd have gone home to Amy, wouldn't he? And whatever he told her about where he was last night, she'd twist it in his head; and she'd tell him about Brendan's visit to her yesterday. And then, never mind all that they'd done together in that hotel bed, what they'd been _like _together – no battles, no coercion, nothing coming between them – Stephen would be poisoned against him again.

:::::::

Brendan ran into Amy in the alleyway near the club. She deserved a fright, the interfering little bitch, and she got one: he gave her his best menacing gangster routine, insinuating unspecified consequences if she didn't keep her nose out. She was feisty, scared though she was: _You'll hit me? Or do you save that for your boyfriends?_

He came close then, close to crossing the line that he'd always drawn; but he didn't. It was enough that Amy believed that he would.

:::::::

Finally he got to speak to Stephen, or rather, Stephen came looking for a confrontation when he arrived at work for his evening shift. Brendan was in the office, and the boy marched in; Amy had told him that Brendan had broken into their flat and threatened her. It wasn't true, course it wasn't. Brendan had let himself in, no breaking required – it was just that neither Amy nor Stephen knew he had a key.

He told Stephen the door had been left open, he'd heard Lucas crying, and had gone in to make sure everything was okay.

"Only reason I didn't tell you is cos I didn't want to badmouth Amy." He could see that Stephen was caving in, and stood up and went to him. "To be honest, I was kinda hoping you'd be there too."

That was all it took; the boy was his again.

"Well, she said if you come near her again she's gonna ring the police, so..."

"When'd she say that?"

"A couple of hours ago, so just stay away from her, alright?"

Fuck. That was before his run-in with her in the alleyway, so, what? Was that enough to make her call the police now? Brendan would have to warn her again, and make sure his threats really were enough to shut her up. And he and Stephen would have to convince anyone else who Amy might think of gossiping to, that there was nothing in what she said.

He got a few notes out of his pocket and proffered them to Stephen.

"Phone Rae, take the night off."

"No!" Stephen seemed startled, outraged even. "You can't buy me and then tell me who to sleep with, no."

Brendan didn't need this defiance, not with Amy threatening to expose them. Stephen didn't seem to grasp how serious it was, what it would mean if people knew about them. It would be over, it would have to be: was that what the boy wanted?

"This is how this is gonna go, Stephen, you either take the money, or you walk away. It's up to you."

Brendan stared at Stephen's face, fighting a need to grab him and shake him. It must only have been a few seconds, but it felt like minutes, before the boy reached a decision: he took the money, balling it up in his fist.

Brendan realised he'd been holding his breath, and exhaled with a sigh that surprised him. He touched Stephen's arm lightly.

"Good lad." He stepped closer and said again, into his ear this time, "Good lad."

He would have to do something about this boy's cheap aftershave. The smell of it reminded Brendan of the changing rooms when he was at school, when all his mates seemed to notice at once that girls existed, and started spraying themselves with that stuff that smelt of synthetic musk. And you couldn't look at the other lads as they got dressed, not for more than a glance, even though you wanted to; in case they saw you looking and thought you were queer.

He buried the memory, and instead recalled last night, when Stephen came back into the hotel bedroom fresh from showering. Then, he'd smelt just of himself, clean, untainted, and ripe to be taken.

Stephen wasn't responding to Brendan's approach, but he wasn't leaving either, so Brendan gently flicked the hair away from his forehead, and closed in to kiss him. But before their lips touched, Stephen turned his head away.

"No." The boy looked offended, or angry, or hurt – all three, possibly. "You can't keep doing this, I'm not - "

"Okay." Brendan stepped away. He could probably coax him around, he'd done it before; but it didn't feel right today for some reason, making this boy want him again when he obviously didn't. And he wasn't going to beg.

It was only after Stephen slunk out of the office to go off and call Rae that his words came back to Brendan. _Sleep with,_ he'd said: _You can't buy me, and then tell me who to sleep with._

Who the fuck said anything about sleeping with the girl? Stephen couldn't have meant it; he must know by now who he belonged to.

Brendan kicked the door shut, and called India.

:::::::

There was some kind of party at the Dog, a refurbishment-reopening-bonfire night thing. It was as good a place as any to take India: there should be plenty of locals about who would see them together and assume they were a couple.

She had come to Chez Chez to meet Brendan, and they'd had a drink there before strolling to the pub. She looked pretty, she was one of those girls who would grow into her looks and in a few years time would be a real beauty. Over-privileged, though. Sweet enough, but naïve and clueless about the world. Still, that suited Brendan; he didn't need anyone too pushy or worldly, with expectations he wouldn't meet.

It was a clear night, and cold. He put his arm around her as they walked, and she leaned in to him.

When they went inside to get a drink, the first people he saw across the crowded bar were Stephen and Rae. So he'd done what he was told then, he'd asked her out; he was larking around with her, making her laugh. It was convincing, that they were a couple. Very convincing.

As soon as Stephen glanced over, Brendan kissed India on the cheek.

:::::::

Brendan was never the life and soul, but he did the circulating and smalltalk for as long as he could bear, because that was the point: to be seen with his girlfriend. Stephen, he noticed, was keeping an eye on Brendan as much as Brendan was on him.

When India spotted some mates of hers, he took the opportunity to leave her to it and escape outside; and Stephen came and found him. It was to have another nag, though. Jesus, the boy was worse than a woman. It was about Amy – what else? - and how Brendan needed to leave her alone because she was too scared of him to leave the flat. That girl certainly had Stephen fooled, it was like she had some kind of hold over him. The lad needed to sort out where his loyalties lay.

Anyway, Stephen was wrong. Brendan knew that Amy wasn't hiding at home, because he'd had a random conversation with a woman in the village who was booking her to babysit that night. Interesting that Amy had kept Stephen in the dark about it. Brendan registered the confusion on the boy's face when he told him himself. It was satisfying, prising a little bit of space between those two; they were far too close for Stephen's good.

Brendan sent him back inside to rejoin Rae. It had been satisfying, too, to see how easily Stephen came away from his date to see him, but there was something in the set of his jaw as he went off to find her again that made Brendan wonder if he'd made a mistake in being quite so harsh with him tonight.

His mood darkened. He dialled Amy's number, and gave her another warning about sticking her nose in. _This time it's no empty threat, it's a promise._

:::::::

There was a fire in the village.

India got a text from her sister when she and Brendan were outside the Dog watching the fireworks. The restaurant Il Gnosh, she said, and Drive & Buy. Shit, that was close to the club, but Cheryl had gone into town tonight with Lynsey, so she wouldn't have been in any danger. Someone mentioned the flat above the shop, where Tony lived with his girlfriend – that was the woman who'd hired Amy to mind her kids. Fuck. Brendan looked around, but Stephen wasn't among the crowd. He dived back inside the pub, looked everywhere, the toilets, even the kitchen, but he'd gone, and so had Rae.

A bunch of people headed back to the village; India held on to Brendan's arm as they walked, and he wanted to shake her off and run. He tried Stephen's mobile, but it went to voicemail.

The scene when they arrived was chaotic, a confusion of emergency vehicles and lights and sounds, the air rancid with smoke.

In the back of an ambulance, Brendan saw Stephen's children. His fingers went to the cross around his neck, but he let go straight away: stupid, stupid.

"Does their dad know?" Brendan asked one of the paramedics. "Has someone told their dad?"

A police officer told him they'd been given Stephen's address and mobile number but they hadn't been able to reach him yet.

"And Amy, their mum, she okay?"

"Are you a relative, sir?"

"Their dad's my... he works for me. He's a mate, a friend."

The medics and police wouldn't tell him anything, but Gabby was there, the one whose kids Amy was looking after, and she said Amy had been in a bad way when she was dragged out of the burning building.

Stephen needed to know. His kids would need their dad now more than ever, and if Amy... if Stephen wasn't there, the poor lad would never forgive himself. Brendan needed to be the one to tell him: the thought of some twenty-year-old copper breaking the news, and not being able to comfort him, was appalling. He headed off to Stephen's flat.

Knocking got no answer, so Brendan let himself in, but the place was empty. Amy's and the children's beds were made; Stephen's wasn't, but that was probably from last night, the lazy little bugger. Or rather, the night before, because last night he'd slept in a hotel bed. Brendan picked up the pillow to check if it was warm, if by any chance Stephen had been back here and someone had just tracked him down and broken the news. The pillow was cold, Brendan found, as he held it to his face and breathed in the scent of the boy.

He tried to ring him again, but again it went to voicemail; Cheryl's too, and Lynsey's. Jesus, it was like being in a nightmare where you were crying out but no-one could hear.

:::::::

When Brendan got back to the scene of the fire, there were still a few people milling about, although the drama was over.

The club's roof had been damaged, a fire officer told Brendan, and there was some water damage to the interior, but they weren't letting anyone in. They allowed Brendan through the cordon just to check that the doors were secure, but that was all.

More news began to seep out as the night wore on: Steph had been killed in helping Amy and the little ones get out. Someone had heard that both the children were alright, they'd inhaled smoke but they would be okay; but Amy was unconscious still. And Malachy had been injured, there'd been an explosion in the restaurant that had blasted the windows out, and he'd been knocked flying. He was in the hospital too.

There was no love lost between Brendan and Malachy, but Cheryl for some reason was still crazy for the guy, even since she'd sacked him, even though he'd gone with Lynsey behind her back. With him hurt and Steph dead, Cheryl would be devastated. Brendan went home to wait for her.

:::::::

He woke up on the sofa: it was morning, so he must have slept for a few hours, and was angry with himself for doing so. Cheryl hadn't come home. He tried and failed to get her on her mobile; tried and failed to get Stephen.

It occurred to him suddenly that there was someone who would know Rae's address, if that was where Stephen had gone: Ravi Roy's little sister knew her, Brendan had seen them talking in the village. It was early, but he went straight round to where she lived, explained why he needed to know. The girl was worried herself, because Ravi hadn't come home, but Brendan made her focus enough to try phoning Rae. There was no answer: no shit. Brendan got Rae's address out of her, and drove straight round there.

Nobody answered the door, so he looked for a way in. It was easy to open the back door: people ought to be more careful.

He found them in bed, the pair of them, Stephen and Rae.

Brendan told Stephen he'd looked everywhere for him, and they needed to talk.

"... Please."

"This better be good. What?"

"Look, there's no easy way for me to say this. There was a fire in the village, Amy was trapped."

"What?" The boy looked wide-eyed.

"She's not great, the kids are in the hospital, they're fine, I just... I need you to get dressed, I'll take you there."

"I'll come with you," Rae said to Stephen, and then to Brendan, angrily, "Will you get out of my bedroom, please?"

"Stephen, just you, yeah? They won't let anyone else in, will they, not yet."

Stephen looked undecided, but then turned to Rae.

"He's right."

"You don't say," said Rae.

Brendan decided not to retaliate.

"Good lad. I'll... I'll see you outside."

:::::::

He sat in the car and waited for Stephen.

So the boy really had interpretedwhat Brendan had told him to do as _sleep with._ That wasn't what Brendan had meant when he'd said they'd both have to get girlfriends, and he had assumed that Stephen would understand that; but it turned out he was wrong. Wrong about Stephen. The image of those two in Rae's bed made him feel... He would have to process it later. The passenger door opened and Stephen got in. He had thrown his clothes on in a hurry, and he looked scruffy and distraught and so, so young.

Brendan started the car.

"It'll be okay, son, yeah?"

"You can't say that though. You don't know that."

The boy was right. He needed honesty, not platitudes.

"No." Brendan touched Stephen's hand for a second. It felt cold.

They drove in silence to the hospital.


	21. Chapter 21

Macca had spent a lot of the night awake. Bonfire night.

He'd been moved back down from the respiratory ward just yesterday, to a general ward on the ground floor, now that his treatment was more for the aftermath of the infection he'd picked up than for the injuries to his ribs and lung. And the window of his bay had a good view of the entrance where ambulances pulled in to deliver people to A&E, so he'd seen it get busy as the night went on. People with burns, he guessed, from messing around with fireworks; and then a bit of a commotion with police as well, and when he woke up in the morning he asked one of the nurses what had happened.

She gave him a few scraps of information.

"... And then there were a few cases brought in, from a fire in down in Hollyoaks village. Nothing to do with fireworks, I don't think, so there you go."

"Who? Do you know who was hurt in the fire, or where it happened? I've got... I know people there, see."

"I can't really say. It's not my department, my love, and I couldn't tell you even if it was."

Macca could tell she knew something though.

"Please." He looked at the nurse, and she sighed.

"All I've heard is, there was someone who died at the scene; and we've got a couple of casualties in, and two little kiddies. I'm sorry, that's all I know."

As soon as the nurse left him, Macca called Brendan's number on his mobile, but there was no answer. He almost rang Cheryl, but she didn't know he was still in Chester, and if Brendan found out that he'd let on, he was bound to be angry. That's if Brendan was okay, and wasn't one of the casualties. Macca abandoned his breakfast, put on his dressing gown and left the ward, to see if he could find out anything.

:::::::

Stephen had barely said a word during the drive to the hospital, and Brendan had given up trying to engage him. The help the boy would accept was practical, that was clear: not comforting platitudes, but getting him to the hospital, getting him to his children. Brendan could at least do that.

They'd been to this hospital together once before, to get Stephen's punched ribs looked at; so at least Brendan knew the best place to park. They went inside.

The boy looked lost, and as he looked at him, Brendan felt his chest constrict. Stephen seemed not to be able to make sense of the direction signs, and when Brendan steered him to the right place, he couldn't frame a question to ask the woman at the reception desk. Brendan took over, and told her who Stephen was, and Amy's name, and the names of the children.

They took him to see his kids first; Brendan waited outside. They had to be alright. They had to be, it would kill Stephen if they weren't. Brendan touched his cross. That stupid, stupid girl Amy: if she'd been as scared by Brendan's threats as she'd made out to Stephen, she'd have stayed at home and not taken her kids with her to someone else's flat, and not been caught up in that fire.

Stephen reappeared. Brendan stood up, trying to gauge from his face what the news was.

"They okay?"

"They inhaled some smoke." Stephen's voice was flat as he repeated what he'd been told. "They've got to stay in for obv... observation, but the signs are good."

"That's good news, yeah? They awake, are they?"

"Leah's sitting up, I played with her. Lucas is sleeping, but they said he was awake though, before."

"I'm glad to hear it." Brendan put a hand on Stephen's arm, but Stephen shrugged him off and walked away.

"Gotta go to Amy now." He stopped and looked around him.

Brendan took over again. He found out where Amy was, and they went into her room together.

Someone was with her, Lee, one of the students from her college; Stephen and Brendan encouraged him to leave, and he got the message.

Amy was asleep, and looked pretty bad. Not burnt or anything – the opposite, not a mark on her – but pale as a ghost and breathing through a mask, like Macca had been a few weeks back.

"She doesn't look too good, does she?" Brendan said involuntarily.

"Do you even care?"

So this was it. This was what had been in this lad's head since Brendan had walked in on him this morning, in bed with that other little blonde of his. Turned out, Stephen thought Brendan must be glad about what had happened to Amy, because it would suit him to have the interfering cow out of the way.

Fuck him. Did he really think Brendan would want that? Brendan wanted to say a lot more to Stephen, put him straight on a few things, but if that was what the boy thought of him, what was the point?

"You know what? Forget it." Brendan turned to go.

"Oh, so you're just gonna walk away from it all, are you?"

Jesus.

"What would you have me do, Stephen, huh?"

And then Amy woke up, and Stephen was all, _It's alright, I'm here._

Brendan left them, and told a nurse that Sleeping Beauty had been awakened by her council flat prince.

A moment later, his mobile rang. It was Lynsey.

"Lynsey, I've been trying to get hold of you all night. Is Cheryl with you?"

"Yeah, sorry Brendan, my phone was off. I'm at the hospital, Cheryl's here too. I've come outside to get a signal. You've heard about Mal?"

"I heard something, yeah. Chez okay?"

"She's in bits, Bren. Mal's not good, and Steph..."

"I heard. Where are you? I'm at the hospital now."

Lynsey told him where to find them, and he went there straight away. Thank Christ, Cheryl was okay. She flung herself at him and he hugged her, but she broke away.

"Don't be nice, Bren, or I'll cry again, and if I start I don't think I'll ever stop."

Brendan nodded. He understood.

He was never sure about Lynsey, didn't know if she liked him even, but they went back a long way. Right now, she wanted a hug too, and he obliged.

"D'you need a lift home?" he asked them both, but they were staying for Malachy. "Call me if you need me, okay?"

There was nothing he could do here. The girls had each other, didn't they. It was Stephen who needed him, whether he wanted Brendan or not.

:::::::

Macca hadn't been able to find out much about the people who'd been in the fire. One, a man, was in a pretty bad way. Another was a woman, the mother of the two little children the nurse had mentioned. But that was all he knew.

He was on his way back to his ward when he saw Brendan. Macca happened to glance down a corridor as he passed the end of it, and there he was, having a fight with a vending machine.

Christ. The sight of him made Macca's insides twist into a knot of desire, fear, love. Every bloody time. Even after everything the man had done, the relief that Brendan wasn't one of the casualties made Macca momentarily unsteady. He took a breath, pushed open the swing doors, and walked to within a pace or two of him.

"No point hitting it, Bren. You just need the right technique."

Brendan was startled.

"The fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm a patient, aren't I. Or had you forgotten?" Macca nudged the hatch on the machine that Brendan had been hammering, and it let him reach in to pick up a Mars bar. He handed it to Brendan and looked up at him. "King size."

"Thanks." Brendan paused. "I mean, what are you doing here, on this floor? Last time I saw you, you were upstairs."

"I'm in a general ward now." Macca watched Brendan unwrap the chocolate and take a big bite out of it. "So I take it you're not here to see me."

"There was a fire in the village."

"I heard."

"Malachy's here, got injured."

"Mal Fisher? You've come to see him? Thought you always hated each other."

"No, Amy's in here too. Girl from the village. And her kids. Wanna bit?" Brendan thrust the Mars bar at Macca's face; Macca took hold of it and took a bite, their fingers touching inadvertently and making him shiver. "I brought their dad in to see them."

Their dad. Ste. Shit. Macca swallowed his mouthful of chocolate, wondering if that was the last time he would ever sample Brendan's saliva.

"Ste okay?" He watched Brendan's face carefully. The mask was in place, but his eyes darted everywhere but at Macca.

"Early days. I don't want him seeing you, Macca, you hear me?"

"Why's that then, Bren?"

Brendan looked at him then, and the blue of his eyes was like ice.

"No-one knows you're here, and it's gonna stay that way, yeah? I don't want anyone asking questions. So you're gonna disappear back to bed, and stay there."

He gave Macca a shove towards the doors. Macca pushed them open, glancing back to see Brendan eat the last of the Mars bar and chuck the wrapper on the floor.

Macca hurried back to his ward. This needed some thinking about.

He'd already worked out that Ste was Brendan's new boyfriend, and Brendan's behaviour only confirmed it. But they couldn't have been together very long – Ste had definitely still been at the hero-worship/curiosity stage last time Macca had seen him, which was the day Brendan had put him in hospital. He'd been straight, Ste, up until then: Macca would bet on it, going by the conversations he'd had with him when he'd stayed over at Ste and Amy's flat. So realistically, how good in bed could he have become in the few weeks since then? Sure, Brendan would have educated him, but Macca had had a whole year to find out what did it for Brendan, the tricks that made him come back for more. Plus, Ste had all that baggage, Amy and the kids, whatever state the poor mites were in. No, it wasn't time to give up hope yet.

:::::::

Brendan didn't like hospitals at the best of times, and with Macca liable to appear at any second, he was feeling jumpy.

The doctor was with Leah and Lucas; Brendan was waiting outside in the corridor with Stephen. The boy was barely holding it together; no attempts at reassuring him made any difference, Stephen's mind was careering all over the place.

"How did it start?"

"What?" Brendan asked.

"The fire, how did it start?"

"I dunno." What did it matter anyhow?

"This can't be happening." Stephen broke down.

Brendan's instinct was to go to him, rub his back, just like he'd do if Declan or Padraig was upset; and for the first time, Stephen let him. Brendan made the boy look at him; promised to help him get through it; told him he didn't have to worry about coming back to work.

Stephen thanked him, and Brendan felt as if something inside his body was perforating.

"Come here. S'okay mate." He wrapped the boy in his arms and held him until a nurse came and took Stephen in to speak with the doctor.

:::::::

It was the way Brendan looked at Ste, and the way Ste let himself be held so tightly in Brendan's arms. Macca saw it, through the glass in the door, as the two of them sat in the corridor: Brendan and Ste. The intimacy of it made him look away, but he couldn't help looking again, and saw Brendan shut his eyes and kiss the top of Ste's head.

This wasn't how Brendan was, not in Macca's experience of him. There'd been moments of tenderness in among the fucking and the fighting, but nothing like this: Brendan was with Ste, in public, just because Ste needed him.

Macca left them.

Maybe if Ste knew what Brendan had done to Macca, he might decide it wasn't worth the risk, and walk away. But it had to happen soon, before Brendan fell any deeper and wouldn't let him go. Macca had never spoken to anyone about Brendan, except briefly and awkwardly once to Eileen. Never betrayed him. Not been to the police when he had every right to. Not given up on him. But what if he did tell Ste now? What could Brendan do to him that he hadn't done already?

He waited and watched, until he found Ste alone.

"I thought that was you," Macca said to him. "What are you doing here?"

Ste told him about his kids and Amy. He was surprised to see Macca, naturally.

"What happened to you?"

This was it now: lie again, or say enough for Ste to make the link.

"You'll have to ask Brendan." Then Brendan walked in: shit. "Talk of the devil. How's it going, Brendan?"

:::::::

Stephen and Macca, sitting together, Macca being all pally. Brendan couldn't believe it, couldn't believe Macca had defied him like that; it was becoming a habit.

The boy said something to Stephen about having an accident on his way back to Ireland. He said it like a threat.

Brendan needed to separate them. He asked Stephen to come outside with him for some fresh air, but Macca wasn't giving up, and came too, and kept needling away like he wanted another kicking. What _did_ he want? That was what Brendan couldn't work out. All he knew was, he seemed dead set on stirring things up: telling Stephen that Brendan had visited him in hospital; making some crack about falling down the stairs; saying what a good _mate_ Brendan was.

Brendan feigned boredom. He knew Macca would leave when he couldn't get a rise out of him, knew he wouldn't have the guts to come out with anything directly to Stephen with Brendan standing right there: and he was right, the kid skulked off.

"Catch you later, yeah?" Brendan called after him, knowing that Macca would recognise it as a warning; and then, to Stephen, "Hey, what he say to you?"

"He told me to ask you. What's going on?"

Then Rae made an entrance, and it was the first time Brendan had ever been pleased to see her. Stephen's question was dropped, and the pair of them went off together.

Brendan stood for a moment, feeling like a spare part, then pulled himself together. He went back to his car, and drove home to the village.

The club was in no state to open because of the fire damage to the roof. Brendan went inside and had a look around, then sat in the office for a while, making phone calls to staff to stop them coming in; cancelling deliveries; sorting out a surveyor to come and inspect the place. Then he checked the doors, tested the alarm and reset it, and headed home.

:::::::

He wasn't sure if he'd been asleep for minutes or hours when he woke up on the sofa. The lack of sleep must have caught up with him.

Someone was pounding on the front door. It was Stephen, and he pushed his way in. He was angry, letting rip, making accusations.

"You pretended to be me mate, pretended to care for me."

He shoved Brendan: that was a dangerous game to play. Brendan warned him.

"Calm down Stephen."

"No! Why have I been so stupid? It was you. You did all this didn't you?"

Jesus. So, Stephen didn't just think Brendan was glad that Amy was hurt: now, he actually believed he'd torched the place. It was because of some hysterical message the girl had left on Stephen's phone before the fire, saying that Brendan was coming for her. Brendan couldn't believe what he was hearing. Right now, he really could kill her for poisoning this boy's mind; but before? Did Stephen really think that of him?

And now he was threatening to go to the police.

"Stephen... Stephen, ask yourself why. Why would I do that to you?"

"Because the message... Because she knew about us, that's why."

Stephen was becoming less sure of his ground, his anger disintegrating into distress. Brendan ought to knock some sense into him, make sure he was in no doubt what would happen to him if he started mouthing off like this in public.

Instead, he talked him down. The boy had to understand that what he was accusing him of wasn't true. He held his face, willing him to believe that he wasn't a killer.

"You know that. Tell me you know that."

Their foreheads touched, and as Brendan talked to him he saw tears flooding Stephen's eyes. He looked very young, and way out of his depth. Brendan's throat tightened.

"I'm sorry." Stephen's voice was choked.

"It's okay. Hey, it's okay. But you need to go to Rae and set her mind at ease, cos I'm assuming you went there before you came here." Brendan saw a flicker of apprehension. "And that's okay, that's okay. We don't want her stirring any stuff about us, do we?"

Stephen shook his head.

"I'll speak to her."

"Yeah." Brendan brushed Stephen's fringe off his face. "Yeah, I know you will. Come here."

He pulled him into a hug, Stephen's head against his shoulder.

These girls, with their attention-seeking, their suspicion, their need to get their claws in. It was Amy's fault Stephen was in this state. Brendan needed to get her away from him, as soon as she was better, far away from anywhere she could spread her gossip. For a moment his hatred of her overtook him, but then his attention returned to the boy in his arms.

Stephen's breathing was ragged with crying. His ribcage heaved jerkily. He was holding on tightly, his fingers digging into Brendan's back. The boy turned his head, and Brendan felt his lips on his neck, his breath damp and hot.

"Stephen." This wasn't the time; Brendan prised him off and held his face again. "You need to get this sorted with Rae, yeah?"

The boy looked up at him. His eyelashes were spiked and darkened with tears, giving this awkward little scally an incongruous, startling beauty. Brendan's eyes slid involuntarily to his mouth; Stephen took that as a cue to kiss him, but Brendan evaded it.

"No, Stephen. You're in no fit state. Anyway, Cheryl might come home."

"Please." Stephen reached for Brendan's hips, moving his hands up beneath his T-shirt. "Please."

The possibility of resistance was vanishing. Brendan kissed Stephen's closed eyelids, one then the other, the lashes fluttering against his tongue. Tears had smeared their way down the boy's face and merged with the snot that pooled on his top lip; it was viscous and salty as Brendan kissed his mouth, and his tongue felt hot as it pushed its way in. Stephen's kiss was full of need.

Brendan bent his knees, pulled the boy against him and lifted him up. Stephen instantly clung on with arms and legs, and Brendan carried him to bed.

Their clothes were gone in moments, and the two men fell onto the bed, their mouths crushing together, their hands clutching at each other's flesh to bring their bodies nearer. Brendan must have felt another man's heart beating against his chest before, but it had never registered with him like it did now, the _aliveness_ of it.

He groaned as Stephen's hand found his cock, and for a minute they lay still, kissing and breathing each other's breath, as Stephen made him hard.

Brendan freed himself and got his lube and a condom from the drawer. He stood and put it on, aware of Stephen's eyes on him, then rolled his lover onto his back, and covered him with his body, and kissed him, and pushed inside him, drawn in deeper as the boy's muscles pulsed around his cock. Stephen enveloped him, his hands stroking and grasping at Brendan's back, and at his arms, and in his hair; his legs circling his waist, pulling him closer.

How did this boy do it? Even as he fucked him, Brendan tried to figure it out. This feeling of being utterly embraced was new, beyond how he'd felt with any man before, but there was no physical trick that was so unusual, so what was it? Stephen was doing this right now to forget, presumably, and yet it wasn't about his own needs. At least, it didn't feel like that to Brendan. It felt generous, as if the boy was offering Brendan everything he had.

Stephen uncurled one leg and slid it down Brendan's body, the heel brushing over his bum and along the back of his leg. Brendan could feel the hairs on Stephen's thigh alongside his own, making his skin tingle. Then Stephen's hand moved too, down from Brendan's neck to his backside, which it squeezed as Brendan thrust in and out of him. Brendan paused, and retrieved Stephen's hand from his arse, and closed his mouth around its fingers letting his spit coat them; then he replaced the hand where it had been. He looked into the boy's eyes, and waited for him to get the message. He did. Brendan felt a wet finger find his hole, but it was tentative, and he had to say _Go on_, before one finger, and then two, invaded him and hooked in hard, multiplying the intensity as he picked up the pace again.

Brendan worked Stephen's cock with his fist, so that when they came, they came together. The boy's gasps sounded like sobs.

:::::::

They both slept. Brendan woke as he felt Stephen leave his arms, and heard him go upstairs to the bathroom. He returned in a pair of boxers; he gathered the rest of his clothes and got dressed quickly.

"You okay?"

"I've gotta go. Gotta tell Rae I was wrong. And I've gotta go home and get some things for Amy and me kids. I shouldn't be here, I should be at the hospital, I should never..."

He hurried out of the bedroom. Brendan got out of bed and caught him as he headed for the front door, and made him stand still. Naked while Stephen was fully dressed, Brendan felt weirdly vulnerable.

"It's okay, Stephen. It'll get better, okay?"

As he said it, Brendan wasn't even sure himself what he meant; so he kissed him, because at least that was simple, and let him go.


	22. Chapter 22

Macca was dreaming. In his dream, he was back in Belfast in his flat, in his bed, in a deep sleep, exhausted from fucking. In his dream, he was stirred from his sleep by the pressure of a hand on his belly, heavy and entitled, stroking slowly down towards his cock which flooded with heat in anticipation. In his dream, he opened his eyes and saw Brendan, who was watching him like a cat on the brink of deciding whether to play with its prey or execute it. In Macca's dream, playing won out, and the creases around Brendan's eyes deepened as he bared his teeth in a smile. In his dream, he could taste whiskey on Brendan's tongue as it pushed into his mouth.

Macca woke up, and his senses focussed, and he was in his hospital bed. He could no longer feel Brendan's hand or taste his tongue, but he felt – and it was somehow a physical feeling, like a tremor in his spinal cord – that Brendan was watching him still.

He opened his eyes like he had in his dream, and saw him. Brendan was sitting in a chair beside the bed, staring. This wasn't good. Macca felt a jolt of alarm, which he hid as best he could. What if Brendan had found out that he'd spoken to Rae?

:::::::

It was yesterday when she'd come up to him in the corridor outside the ward. She must have recognised him from the time she had come in to Chez Chez, back when he had briefly worked there; it took him a moment, but he remembered her when she said she was a friend of Ste's. Of course, Ste must have told her that he and Macca had had a conversation the day before: that's why she had come to see him.

Macca had already begun to worry that the hints he'd dropped to Ste – the _I fell down the stairs,_ the _You'd better ask Brendan,_ the _He's a good mate_ – had been a bad idea, and now here was Rae, looking for some answers, and he didn't know how to stop her. He tried to get away, but she made him listen, told him how worried she was for Ste, because Ste reckoned that it was Brendan who had put Macca in hospital.

Ste had worked it out then, from Macca's clues.

But it turned out that Ste was keeping secrets of his own: Rae didn't know that he was with Brendan.

"I love him," she said.

She was clueless, poor girl. She didn't know what she was mixed up in, and she had a right to know what was really going on.

"They're together." Macca felt his stomach turn over as he betrayed his lover's secret. "They're a couple."

Rae took a few moments to take in what he'd said. Macca felt sorry for her, she had obviously sensed some connection between her boyfriend and Brendan, but hadn't begun to imagine the nature of it.

When she spoke again, her voice was small.

"How d'you know?"

"I just know. I know Brendan, known him for years." No point confessing anything more than he had to.

"But Ste... me and Ste, we're... we've slept together. How can he and Brendan..?"

"You'll have to ask Ste. Look, I've said too much, but I had to didn't I? I had to warn you. Brendan, he's dangerous, if he finds out you're with Ste, he'll - "

"He knows. He's seen us together. My god, he even walked into my bedroom and found us."

"Then he's biding his time. You need to get away, away from here, away from Brendan." He turned to go.

"But Macca - "

"I've got to go." He headed back to the ward.

It didn't make sense that Brendan was okay with Ste having a girlfriend. It was one thing if she was a beard, Macca could see Brendan being okay with that. But if Ste was actually sleeping with Rae, that was a different thing entirely. Back in Belfast, if ever Macca had been careless enough to mention the name of his ex-boyfriend, Brendan used to spasm into jealousy, and that was when he was at his most frightening. So Rae must be in danger. Ste was, too. Macca had done them a favour by warning her: now that she knew the truth, maybe she would disappear and take her boyfriend with her to give themselves a new start. They'd be safe then. And Ste wouldn't be in the way any more.

:::::::

Brendan hadn't been able to get hold of Stephen since they'd parted yesterday, and he was worried.

The boy had been angry when he'd come to see him, full of wild accusations and threatening to go to the police; and then he'd broken down. Recalling the feel of Stephen sobbing and shaking in his arms made Brendan's breath catch. Taking him to bed had been a mistake: the boy had wanted it, pretty much begged for it, but still Brendan couldn't shake the thought that he should have been stronger and resisted, because afterwards Stephen hadn't seemed any better.

He'd tried to ring him last night, and again this morning, but got no answer. Brendan needed to know that Stephen had spoken to Rae like he'd promised, to persuade her that the speculation about him starting the fire was bullshit. That would be one less thing to worry about.

Last night, when Cheryl got home from visiting Malachy, she'd brought news that Amy was out of danger. That was good: maybe Stephen would be more like his usual self. Seeing him so unhappy, it was as though Brendan felt it himself.

Fuck. Stephen wasn't the only one who needed to get a grip. It was the danger Stephen's unhappiness put Brendan in that was the problem, wasn't it, his liability to shoot his mouth off about all kinds. That was why Amy needed to get well. And if she got well, she could get lost, because she was far too fond of gossip, that girl; and now that she'd had a fright, it shouldn't be too hard to persuade her to go.

The other immediate problem that needed sorting was Macca. With so many people from the village milling around the hospital, it was only a matter of time before someone spotted him and questions were asked; and from the way the lad had acted when Brendan had found him talking with Stephen, Macca looked like he'd be willing to give some answers. He had always kept his mouth shut before, and Brendan could see now that he'd taken it for granted that it would stay that way. The lad's recklessness was new, and unexpected. He had to go.

That was why Brendan had left Cheryl to have a lie-in this morning – poor kid was exhausted with grieving over Steph and worrying over Malachy – and driven to the hospital on his own.

One of the nurses recognised him, she'd been working on the respiratory ward when he'd visited Macca up there; she told him she'd been transferred just yesterday to the ward he was in now.

"Your nephew's doing really well," she said. "I was just looking at his chart."

"Yeah? So how long d'you think before we can get him home?"

"We just need to make sure the last of the infection's gone. He's due for more blood tests today, so we'll know more when we get those back."

"Educated guess?" Brendan smiled at her, cocked his head to one side, and watched her blush a little. Women were pushovers.

"Two or three days? But that's just me saying. It's up to the doctor, so don't go getting your hopes up."

"Mind if I go in? I know it's not visiting hours, but I'm here now, so..."

"Go on, then. He was asleep though, last time I looked."

He went in.

How long was it since he last saw Macca sleeping? Must be four months. Felt like another life.

It used to fascinate Brendan, watching him. Sex used to wear the boy out, and he'd go in a heartbeat from consciousness to the sudden, deep sleep of a tired child, even in the middle of the day. Brendan used to doze off too, but when he woke up recharged and ready for another fuck, he always had to wake Macca. He could do it by stroking him, or by a hot whisper in his ear, or by kissing and biting. But he'd discovered too that he could bring him round just by looking at him: Macca would begin to frown and fidget as Brendan's gaze drew him out of his sleep. He had put it down to coincidence at first, but he wasn't so sure. It made Brendan feel powerful, as much as it unnerved him.

He tried it now, sitting beside Macca's hospital bed, and it worked like it used to. Macca was lying facing away from Brendan, but as soon as he woke up, he turned to look at him as if he already knew he was there.

The boy looked scared. Good.

:::::::

It was scary. _He_ was scary. He couldn't really do anything, not here: even Brendan wouldn't dare, with help a scream away and CC cameras in the corridors outside, and as a result his manner was quiet. But he'd closed the curtains around the bed.

He was here to send Macca home, even though the doctors hadn't discharged him yet. Brendan had come prepared, shoving an envelope full of cash at him to pay for his flight. Pay him off, more like.

Cards on the table.

"Brendan, come on, I got nothing to go back for."

"You got nothing to stay for either."

Macca would have preferred another punch. He watched as Brendan began to stuff his belongings into a carrier bag, like Macca had no say in the matter and wasn't even worth the trouble of an explanation. Well, Brendan couldn't get away with treating him like that: Macca told him he would speak to the police.

It was an empty threat, and they both knew he would never follow through. That was the irony: Brendan couldn't deal with knowing that Macca loved him, but he'd always relied on that love to stop Macca going to the police, ever since he'd first hurt him right at the beginning.

Brendan was riled now. He was succeeding in reining it in, but Macca knew the signs.

"I want you as far away from me as humanly possible, d'you understand that?"

Macca's pain gave him a rush of nerve.

"So you can be with your new boyfriend?"

Brendan didn't deny it, just made another threat.

And then Cheryl walked in and gave Macca a kiss, and the room filled with warmth, and the Brendan who was full of fears and threats and secrets and suppressed rage, became Brendan the big brother, being told off for not telling Cheryl that Macca was in the hospital. And when he told his sister that he was about to take his nephew to the airport, Cheryl wouldn't hear of it. She asked Macca to come and stay with them.

Macca looked at Brendan, who smiled so unconvincingly that it was amazing that Cheryl didn't ask him what his problem was. The sun really did shine out of Brendan's backside for her. There must be only a handful of people who had a clue what he was really like: Macca was one, and in spite of everything, it still felt like a privilege.

"Macca, love," Cheryl said, "I can't stop, I'm on my way to see Mal. He's... You've heard, I expect?"

"Yeah. Give him my best, Cheryl, if he's..."

"Course I will. We'll catch up later at home, okay?"

Macca nodded. Cheryl kissed him again, and hurried off.

He looked at Brendan, feeling that for once he had the upper hand.

"So, looks like we're gonna be roommates."

Before the sentence was out, Brendan was holding Macca down on the bed with a hand on his throat, the other fist pressing into his ribs, and snarling into his face.

"Forget what Cheryl said. You're leaving here, and you're getting on a plane, and you're never gonna show your face around here again, or you're a dead man. You think I'm joking?"

Macca shook his head, and Brendan let go of him.

He was aware of his ribcage throbbing as he gasped for breath.

"I'll tell them I'm going, Bren, but I can't just up and leave. There'll be... I dunno... procedures. They'll need to sort my drugs out to go home with, for one thing."

"You better hope their _procedures_ are quick then, yeah? Fucksake, Macca, you been here long enough."

:::::::

Cheryl finding out that that Macca had never gone back to Belfast – and walking in on them when they were together, so Brendan couldn't plead ignorance – was the last thing he'd wanted. The boy was a liability, although when Cheryl had commented that he didn't look well, Brendan had looked at Macca and had to admit to himself that he probably wouldn't have been fit to travel any sooner. He was pale and thin, and obviously in pain. Still, if he'd done what he was told and stayed away, he wouldn't have landed himself in hospital in the first place.

The idea of having Macca stay with them was untenable. It made Brendan feel sick to think of the boy letting slip some bit of information about their history, and anyway, it was Stephen who wasn't up to being on his own. Brendan wanted Stephen to come and stay so he wouldn't be alone while Amy and the kids were in hospital, and he couldn't have them both under his roof, Stephen and Macca. Jesus. Only, when Brendan asked him, Rae got in there and said she'd go and stay with him to look after him, and Stephen said yes to her. Fuck.

When all this blew over, Brendan would have to clarify what Rae's purpose was: she was a cover story, not a friend to share secrets with or a girlfriend to screw.

At least Brendan could deal with Amy.

He went to see her. She looked like a doll lying there in her hospital bed, tiny and frail, but still, Brendan had a job to do, and he did it. She had decided for herself that he was responsible for torching the village, so all Brendan had to do was play with her fear: her fear for herself and for her children. Her imagination did the rest. It turned out that she was already planning to run away to her dad's; and when Brendan left her, it crossed his mind that he needn't have implied quite so emphatically that her suspicion about the fire was right, as she was fucking off anyway. It might backfire on him: she was bound to blab to Stephen about Brendan's visit, and as the boy didn't know his own mind right now, he would be right back to thinking the worst.

It suddenly felt like a very long time since Brendan had had a good night's sleep.

He rang Cheryl. She must have been in with Malachy, because her phone went straight to voicemail. He left a message saying he was going, and that she should give him a call when she wanted him to come and pick her up. Then he headed for the nearest exit, and as soon as he stepped outside, he saw Macca.

:::::::

Macca had spoken to the nurses, told them he wanted to leave, just like he'd promised Brendan he would. They tried to talk him out of it, but he realised how tired he was of being a patient: it had been weeks now, and he was beginning to think that if he didn't get his independence back soon he would forget who he was. So he was insistent, and they had to agree; he just had to hang on while they got his meds ready and processed the paperwork.

While he was waiting, he went outside for some air. Knowing he was leaving, he felt fearful and empty. When he got back to Belfast he would see his parents and his mates, and he had made sure the rent was paid on his flat, so he had that to go back to. But he had no job there, and no lover. He'd lived there all his life, but felt no connection with the place any more. That's what Brendan had done to him.

"You just don't get the message, do you?"

Brendan. Shit.

"I got the message alright. I also got a punctured lung and three cracked ribs."

Brendan ignored that. All he did was issue another threat if Macca didn't disappear, only it was just words this time, nothing physical, no looking into his eyes; and then he went to go.

No. This couldn't be the last he saw of Brendan. Macca needed a reaction, some fire, anything but dismissal and walking away. He grasped for something that would press his buttons, bring him back.

"You know, me and Ste are quite similar. You obviously go for the same type of fella."

That worked. Brendan was back, and in his face.

"I ain't queer."

It was crazy to wind him up now that he was angry, but the kick of adrenaline was thrilling.

"Tell that to your new boyfriend."

Brendan grabbed him and slammed him against the wall, and the shock of it made Macca aware that he'd gone too far. He couldn't fight him off – he'd never even tried to, Brendan was twice his size – so he repeated what he'd told him in the ward, that he would go to the police.

Brendan's rage turned to exasperation.

"What do you want?"

He really didn't know? Last chance, then. Nothing to lose.

"I want you back."

"What?" Brendan seemed genuinely uncomprehending.

"Dump Ste, and get back with me." Brendan let go of him. "If you don't, I'll call the police."

Brendan took a step back and looked at Macca's face intently.

"You're out of your mind. Jesus."

"If I'm out of my mind, it's you that made me that way. Bren, just think about it, what we had - "

Macca moved closer, but Brendan pushed him against the wall again, not violently this time, with a hand in the centre of his chest.

"What we had, it's done," he said quietly. "You need to go, Macca. Go. Go home." Brendan turned then, and walked away.

Macca sat back down and shut his eyes. He could feel Brendan's handprint on his chest, pressing on his heart.

He took his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown, and dialled Cheryl's number. It went to voicemail.

"Hi Cheryl, it's me, it's Macca. Listen, I've been discharged now so, I've just got to get my stuff and I'm ready to go. Give me a call when you're done here, and I'll come with you, okay? Thanks again, Chez, you're a life saver."


	23. Chapter 23

He couldn't have made it any clearer. _You got nothing to stay here for. Go home._ And yet when Brendan pulled up at the hospital to collect Cheryl from visiting Malachy, there he was, Macca, waiting with her in the dark to come and stay with them. Brendan glared at him.

"Alright Brendan? Thanks for this. You're a mate."

"Get in."

Macca climbed in the back, and then Cheryl did too instead of getting in the passenger seat. What was Brendan, a fucking taxi driver?

As he drove he could hear them behind him, talking, too quietly for him to hear what they were saying. A couple of times, Macca's eyes met his in the mirror, and he saw amusement there, and it was like the challenge he used to see in them: _Fuck me or hit me, do what you want_.

When they parked up in the village and got out of the car, Stephen was across the road, heading home with a takeaway. Rae was with him. Stephen stopped when he saw them, but Rae took hold of his arm and hurried him along. Shit. The last thing Brendan had wanted was for Stephen to know that Macca was in the village; he couldn't have them talking to each other again.

:::::::

Cheryl was in mother hen mode when they got in. She needed to keep occupied, she said, because if she stopped, all she could think about was her friend Steph – the girl who'd died in the fire – and Mal Fisher, who was in a bad way.

For Macca, it was disorientating not being a patient any more, and he was glad that Cheryl was taking charge; she showed him to their spare room upstairs, and ran him a bath. Brendan had poured himself a whiskey as soon as they got in, and was sitting morosely reading the paper when Macca went downstairs again. Cheryl had made soup, and the three of them sat at the table to eat it. It was the first time Macca had enjoyed any food since before he'd gone into hospital: the food in there had been lukewarm and insipid.

Brendan guzzled his soup like a starving man.

"My brother," Cheryl said, "Has no table manners."

She cleared the dishes when they'd finished, and told Brendan and Macca to put the telly on and relax, and she'd join them in a minute. Macca went and sat on the sofa. Brendan switched on the television, then stood over him. Macca saw him glance towards the kitchen to make sure Cheryl's back was turned, before he grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet.

"Are you gonna watch what you say to my sister, Macca?"

He felt Brendan's breath, hot against his cheek.

"I always watch what I say, Bren, you know that."

"Yeah." His grip on Macca's right arm loosened to a squeeze, and he took hold of his left arm too with his other hand, and frowned. "Fucksake, son, there's nothing of you."

"Not had much of an appetite."

Brendan let go of him, and picked up his leather jacket from the back of the sofa.

"Chez, I'm going for a pint."

And he was gone.

:::::::

Macca was tired, but he didn't get to sleep straight away when he went to bed. He lay waiting for Brendan to get home from the pub or wherever he'd gone. Eventually he heard him come in, and up the stairs to the bathroom, and then downstairs again; the door of the room below Macca's opened and closed.

There was a comfort in knowing that Brendan was sleeping a few feet away from him, and Macca slept well then.

In the morning, he didn't get up until late. Cheryl went off with Lynsey: Lynsey to work, and Cheryl to visit Mal. Brendan emerged from his room, scowled at Macca, stomped upstairs, stomped down again, and issued the usual threats. Macca stood up for himself, answered back. It was never a good idea to let Brendan scent fear on you, it was liable to make him merciless; and in any case, he realised, he wasn't afraid right now. Macca was Cheryl's guest, and he couldn't see Brendan wanting to do anything to upset her in her current vulnerable state. This time, Brendan made do with pinching his toast, and went out, slamming the door behind him.

Macca was glad to be on his own. There was no privacy in a hospital ward; even in a side room you had people peering in at you the whole time. He was at a bit of a loose end, though. He didn't feel up to going out, not today, but he promised himself that tomorrow he would. Instead, he phoned home and spoke to his mum. He had to make things up to chat about, because he hadn't told her – or anyone else, come to that – about his injury, and had only had a couple of short conversations with her in the past few weeks.

Then he swallowed a couple of painkillers, and went quietly into Brendan's room. Macca sat on the bed and picked up a pillow, and breathed in the scent of him; then he curled up with it, and slept the day away.

:::::::

Brendan called in at the hospital. He peered into Amy's room, hoping that she'd checked out, but she hadn't. He was tempted to go in and speak to her again, ask her when she was leaving, but he thought better of it: he didn't want to give her any more ammunition for when she inevitably badmouthed him to Stephen.

He found Cheryl outside Malachy's ward. From what Brendan could gather, it didn't look great for him, and Cheryl was almost at breaking point. It wrenched his heart, seeing her like this, and he tried to think of something to say that would make her feel better. He wasn't much good at this kind of thing, but he held her, and let her cry, and in the end it seemed to help her.

As soon as she was okay for him to leave her, Brendan drove back to the village. There were things he had to sort out with the club. It was going to take weeks to get the place ready to reopen, because the damage to the roof was extensive and the whole upper level needed rewiring. There was no sign of any insurance money coming through until the investigation into the cause of the fire was complete, and Brendan's only source of income now, dealing drugs, had pretty much dried up because he felt as if the police were looking over his shoulder. Maybe he was being paranoid, but it wasn't worth the risk.

He'd had a bright idea though. The SU Bar would be dead from the beginning of next month when the students went home for Christmas, and Brendan wanted Chez Chez to take the place over temporarily, to keep the brand alive while their own premises were out of action. He hadn't discussed it with Cheryl, in case it was a non-starter, but if it worked out it would be something for her to throw herself into, to take her mind off everything that had happened. He set up a meeting with the college.

He had to do something, or he'd go out of his mind with no work to do, no money, and Stephen not answering his bloody phone. If he got a version of the club running again, it'd mean the boy would have to come to work.

:::::::

Brendan had stayed out drinking again last night. When he'd got in, Cheryl had been uncommunicative; eventually, he'd coaxed out of her that Malachy had had a crisis after Brendan had left her at the hospital, and had been intubated. There was something else though, something she wasn't telling him. Something that made her avoid looking him in the eye.

This morning, she seemed back to normal; she'd rung the hospital and been told there'd been no change in Malachy, so at least he was no worse, and that must have made Cheryl feel a bit happier. She was sorting out the washing or something – Brendan wasn't taking much notice, he was eating some breakfast and trying to read the paper. But gradually, he picked up that she had something she needed to say. There was a string of odd comments: about the colour pink suiting him; a cryptic remark about Ian McKellen; some line about Brendan's moisturiser... Who didn't moisturise, for fucksake? You had to moisturise.

And then she said it, what she'd been edging towards. She sat down next to him, and held his hand.

"Brendan, are you gay?"

Her tone was sympathetic, like she was talking to somebody with cancer.

Brendan felt sweat forming under his arms and on the back of his neck. _Gay._ Course he wasn't gay, but all his life he'd hidden and deceived, just so no-one – least of all a member of his family – would ever ask him that question.

He snatched his hand away.

"Why are you asking me that?"

He asked her where it had come from, who she'd been talking to. Christ, he must be getting careless. Was it Macca, having cosy chats with Cheryl while Brendan was out? Or Stephen, with his suspicions about the fire, casting about for a way to get revenge? Could be Amy, or even Malachy if he'd picked up some bit of tittle tattle swilling around back home.

And then Cheryl seemed to come to her senses.

"I don't know what I'm thinking. You, gay? The very notion of it's just ridiculous isn't it? Sorry, love."

"Think maybe you need some rest." Brendan forced a laugh, and they dropped it.

_Ridiculous_. She was right. Queers, gays, whatever you called them, they were ridiculous and then some, he'd known that ever since he was a kid. That wasn't what he was. It made him sick to think it.

:::::::

Macca was spending his days aimlessly; he didn't have any plans, because nothing was certain. His head told him that there was no way on god's earth that Brendan was going to take him back, but his heart told him that if he stuck around, there might be the ghost of a chance. And at least if he stuck around, he'd be able to see him every day.

He was getting out and about, anyway, and felt himself beginning to get stronger. However much he wanted to see Brendan, he was consciously avoiding being alone with him, because he seemed preoccupied and suspicious of everyone, even Cheryl. Macca felt that Brendan was biding his time, working things out, and if he was going to be on the receiving end, he'd rather delay it by steering clear of him for now.

He'd found a gay pub in town where it was easy to while away his time. And he walked in the local park and found the place where Brendan had attacked him; he'd thought it would unsettle him, being there, but it didn't. It was just another memory.

Macca ran into Ste in the village: Ste wasn't happy with him.

"You had no right, talking to Rae."

So it looked like Rae had told him at last then, that she knew from Macca about Ste and Brendan. And now Ste was on his way to have a row with Brendan, by the look of it. Macca was pleased that Ste seemed so hostile to Brendan, but less pleased when it occurred to him that Ste might just feel like dropping him right in it. He saw him again just a few minutes later, bolting away in the opposite direction: Brendan obviously hadn't invited him in. Good.

Macca was expecting Brendan to have a go at him when he got in that evening, but he barely even acknowledged him. That was almost worse.

Nothing made any sense in those last few days at the hospital, and in the days since. People – Brendan, Ste, Rae – seemed to be finding things out in dribs and drabs, and storing it up, then reheating it when you'd think it had gone cold. It was as if there was a capricious hand stirring things around. Macca was confused by it all; maybe he should cut down on the painkillers.

The next time he saw Ste, Macca was at home alone and answered the door to him.

"Bren's out." Macca began to close it, but Ste pushed his way in.

"It's you I come to see."

"Look, Ste, this isn't a good idea. If Brendan comes back and finds - "

"Are you scared of him?"

"That what you came to ask me?"

"No." Ste slumped onto the sofa. "What you told Rae, about me and him. How did you know? How did you know Brendan's gay?"

Ste wasn't much younger than Macca, maybe two or three years, he guessed; but right now he looked looked like a kid, and Macca felt for him.

"Brendan, he's family. You hear things."

"No, Macca. You know, don't you? Because you and him... You and him."

What was the point in lying any more? Ste was naïve, but he wasn't stupid, and Macca had given him too many clues to deny it now.

"Yes."

Ste nodded, and swallowed.

"He's your uncle though."

"God, Ste, only by marriage, we're not blood relations. Even Brendan - "

"Are you sleeping with him now?"

"What if I was?"

"Are you though?"

"No."

"Okay." Ste got up and went to the door. "I've got to go, Rae's got the kids. Sorry, Macca, it's just, everything's messed up in my head."

"Brendan has that effect."

:::::::

Brendan was biding his time, trying to work out who'd said what to whom. He was busy, too, with negotiating the new venue for Chez Chez and planning the repairs for their own building. He'd had Stephen hammering on his door with more accusations, and Macca was still under his roof and showing no signs of shifting.

And then, Malachy died. Cheryl called from the hospital, sounding numb as she gave Brendan the news. It had happened a couple of hours earlier, and Cheryl had stayed to be with Mercedes as she dealt with the formalities. Now, they needed a lift home. He drove straight there.

He saw Lynsey first of all, sitting in the relatives' room drinking coffee with some lad. Brendan didn't recognise him until he looked up, and then he saw that it was Malachy's younger brother, Francis. He had a beard now. Brendan hadn't seen him for a few years. He used to be the annoying little kid who wanted to tag along when a bunch of them – Brendan, Malachy, Peter, Alan and the rest – used to hang out in the park playing football and drinking knock-off lager; then Francis had grown up and Cheryl got to know him when she was making a fool of herself over his big brother. Brendan had seen him with her once or twice: he'd turned queer and changed his name to Kris with a K, for fucksake. He had moved away from Belfast four, five years back: according to Cheryl, he'd gone to England so he could be who he really was.

Fucking psychobabble. As if crossing the Irish sea changed anything.

Lynsey got up, and Brendan gave her a hug.

"Brendan, you remember - "

"Francis, yeah. I'm sorry for your loss."

They shook hands, and Brendan noticed that his fingernails were painted; it made his skin crawl.

Cheryl flung herself into Brendan's arms when she and Mercedes came into the room, and he held her tightly. She didn't cry, though – she must have been keeping it together for the sake of the others. He felt proud of her.

Francis was staying at the hospital to wait for his mum to get there, so Brendan drove the three girls back to the village. They were being met by some of the McQueens in the Dog for a drink; it seemed like a good thing for them to do, but Brendan didn't join in. He hated that sentimental, laughing-through-tears kind of mourning.

He went home. Macca was there, watching some crap on the telly. Brendan threw his jacket onto the banister then grabbed the bottle of Jameson's from the cupboard and poured a glassful.

"You alright Bren?" Macca switched off the television.

"Malachy died. Cheryl's in bits." He drained his drink and poured another. "Want one?"

"Go on then. God, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was that serious."

"Turns out, it was." He handed Macca a drink and sat down next to him. "Didn't think you liked whiskey much."

"Never used to, did I? You musta given me a taste for it. Didn't think you liked Mal much."

"I don't. Didn't. Messed my sister around, didn't he."

Brendan shut his eyes and leaned his head back. It hadn't always been true that he didn't like Malachy: there'd been a time when they were teenagers, when Brendan used to look at him, his straight, strong shoulders and the slight overbite he had when he closed his mouth, and wonder what it would be like if... But he'd never found the guts to try anything, not before Peter, and certainly not after.

He sat up and swallowed his whiskey, and started to get up to get another, but Macca put a hand on his arm and took the glass from his hand.

"Let me."

Brendan needed to confront Macca, see if it was him who'd blabbed to Cheryl, get him to get on a fucking plane back to Ireland. But not now. Now, he just needed someone there.

When Macca brought their drinks he sat back down, closer than before; Brendan was aware of the warmth of his body beside him. Just this once, he didn't push the boy away.


	24. Chapter 24

_Note_: Thank you to everyone who's been reading this fic, especially those who have been following the story since Breaking Rules, which started in March last year. All the reviews and comments have been much appreciated.

**Final chapter**

* * *

><p>Macca was living in Brendan's house, but wasn't seeing much of him. Malachy's death had for some reason jolted Brendan into a burst of activity, and he was out most of the time getting everything set up for Chez Chez's takeover of the SU Bar, and doing whatever else he did to fill his time. When he was at home, he was taking care of Cheryl and trying to cheer her up; or he'd disappear into his bedroom with a bottle of Jameson's. Cheryl wasn't around much either. She was spending time with Steph's family and with the McQueens – some kind of post-traumatic bonding seemed to be going on – and throwing herself into Brendan's plans for the club.<p>

Occasionally, Brendan would stop and look at Macca, and ask, _Still here?_ And Macca would respond laconically, _Looks like it,_ or _Nothing gets past you, does it?_ in the hope of provoking a reaction. This morning, Brendan had asked the question Macca had been expecting for a bafflingly long time: whether he'd been saying things about Brendan. Perhaps at last he had got wind of the chat Macca had had with Rae at the hospital.

"Someone's putting it around that I'm batting for the other team."

"You wouldn't want that getting out now, would you?" Macca expected at least a shove or a grab for that, but there was nothing.

Apparently somebody had outed him to Cheryl, but to Macca's surprise, Brendan accepted his plea of ignorance.

"If I find out you've said anything..." Brendan had snatched Macca's newspaper from him. "Book your plane home today."

Then he'd hit Macca on the back of the head with the paper, and left. Fucking hell, by the usual measure of Brendan's violence, that was practically a kiss. And it didn't make Macca any more inclined to give up and go home to Belfast.

Macca headed out for a walk, and that was when he met Ste: in fact it turned out that Ste was coming looking for him, to find out if Brendan had been on his case.

"About his sexual ambiguity?" It was odd, but a relief after all this time, to talk to someone who shared this secret.

"So he has."

"Yep."

Ste was surprised that Macca was still in one piece. He must have been on the receiving end of Brendan's temper too, then, to know about Brendan's habit of beating his boyfriends.

"Macca, how can he be so nice, and then lose it?"

That confirmed it, and Macca felt a stab of jealousy that someone else had this knowledge of Brendan. He needed to find out how far gone Ste was, whether he was likely to walk away; so he suggested they go for a drink. And to be mischievous – and because it was somewhere they wouldn't run into Brendan – he told Ste he would take him to a gay bar. Ste squirmed a bit, looked awkward, got a bit testy when Macca said someone might ask him to dance; but he was open to it. Christ, Macca could see why Brendan fancied him: he was up for a scrap, easy to tease, malleable, and so, so innocent. Vulnerable too. Macca found himself putting an arm around Ste's shoulders and promising to look after him.

"It's a long walk or a short bus ride, Ste. What do you want to do?"

"Erm, let's walk it then, eh?"

The quickest way was through the park, and they talked as they went. Ste spoke about his his children, his time with Amy; maybe it was the thought of going to a gay pub that made him want to big-up his heterosexual credentials. Brendan must have had to put in a lot of work to turn him.

"When did you and Bren get together, then?" Macca asked.

"Well, I've known him ever since him and Cheryl opened the club, but we didn't... erm... About a month ago I s'pose."

"And you're together now, yeah?"

"No. I don't know... I don't think so."

"Why's that then?"

"I can't tell you."

They didn't talk for a while then, until Macca broke the ice when they neared the pub.

"I'd have killed for a beer when I was in hospital. Might have made the days go quicker."

"Did Brendan... It was him that put you there, wasn't it?"

Macca didn't answer. Ste wouldn't understand how Macca could stick around with a man who'd done that to him: it must look pretty sick from the outside. Or maybe Ste _would_ understand, and that would be worse, because that would mean Ste would go back to him too.

They got their drinks.

Macca couldn't help liking Ste; he was a decent lad, and didn't kick off when Macca asked personal questions. Didn't always answer them, though.

"So, you in love with him then?" Macca asked.

"I've got a girlfriend."

None the wiser.

They went and sat down at a secluded table. Now, it was Ste's turn to ask a question.

"So, you're like proper gay, you, aren't you?"

"I'm in love with a guy, and I followed him to England. Guess I must be."

Maybe if Ste knew that – knew how Macca _felt_ – he would cut his losses and leave Brendan alone before he got in any deeper, and before anyone else got hurt. And Ste was saying that even now, after what he'd done with Brendan, he wasn't _proper _gay. Well, Macca doubted that, and reckoned that if Ste found someone new, someone he wasn't scared of, then he'd realise that what Brendan had awakened in him was who he really was. Macca gave him a nudge in that direction.

"Maybe, being a bit unsure about what you are, means... you've got to try it to find out the truth." Gently, he kissed him; Ste barely hesitated before responding, and then Macca pulled away. "See, the world hasn't come crashing down now, has it?"

Ste looked around like a startled animal.

They drank in silence for a while. Ste looked deep in thought. Eventually, Macca reassured him that, nice though the kiss had been, he needn't worry, because he wasn't Macca's type. That wasn't strictly true though: if he'd met him a couple of years ago, Ste would have been exactly Macca's type. Just, not any more: not since Brendan had come along and changed his tastes somewhat.

They talked about Ste's past: Brendan was his first, just as Macca had thought. And they talked about Brendan's violence. Ste had worked out that it stemmed from his closetedness, and Macca tried to get through to him that it wouldn't always be like that, not with other men. It was funny, Macca had intended to try to put Ste off to get him out of the way, but now, he had warmed to him, and was genuinely telling him for his own good. Maybe Brendan saw this in Ste, this need for protection; only, Brendan's response was to isolate and control him. It felt familiar.

Ste looked troubled.

"What's up?"

"It's just, Brendan." He paused. "I think he tried to kill Amy in that fire."

"Really?" Macca already knew that Ste suspected this, because Rae had told him so; but he didn't let on that she'd said anything.

"Cos, she knew about me and him, and he didn't like it." Ste stopped himself then, as if he knew he'd said too much, and went off to the loo.

Macca sat and finished his drink. So, Ste really thought Brendan had done it. That was what had split them up. Macca, although he'd told Rae that Brendan was capable of anything, didn't think for a moment that he was the arsonist. He'd seen how he was with Eileen and their kids over the years, and never once thought that he would hurt them. Sure, it was different if they were other people's, but no: women and children weren't in danger from Brendan. Ste was wrong.

Macca went outside to wait for him.

:::::::

Brendan had let things lie for a bit. Aside from the club, Cheryl was his priority right now, and he didn't want to stir things up and show her how rattled he was by her accusing him of being queer. He'd made the odd dig at Macca to try to get him to leave, but it wasn't until this morning that he'd asked him outright whether he'd been talking to Cheryl. Macca denied it, and Brendan believed him: he could always tell if that boy was lying.

He'd been trying to contact Stephen, and finally he answered his phone. He denied it too, and although Brendan only had his voice to go on, he was inclined to believe him too.

A few minutes later, he saw them together in the street, Stephen and Macca. What the fuck were they up to? The only thing they had in common was Brendan.

As they set off together, he followed them. He had to keep his distance so that they wouldn't see him, and once they reached their destination, he hesitated: it was a gay bar. Fuck. He almost turned away, but his disgust was overruled by his need to know what those two boys were talking about, and he went in.

Brendan saw where they were sitting and got as close as he could, but he could only catch the odd word. He saw them, though: he saw them kiss, and his stomach tightened into a knot.

He waited. Eventually Stephen went off to the toilets, and after a minute or two, Macca got up and went outside.

Brendan followed him.

:::::::

It happened so quickly that it was a blur. Macca was aware of Brendan appearing out of nowhere. _I thought I told you to go!_ Being grabbed and slammed against the wall. Brendan shouting in his face, _I'm not interested, Macca!_

Telling Brendan, because this was the last chance, and because it was the truth, _I love you._

And Brendan's fury. _Don't you ever say that to me... Stay away from me, you little queer!_

And another voice in the mix, Ste's, yelling at Brendan to get off him. _I mean it!._ And Brendan letting go, and Ste warning him, _You've done enough damage already... Stay away._

And wondering why Brendan did as Ste said. And wondering why Brendan allowed Ste to stand in between them. And Brendan, controlled now, thrusting some money at Macca, and his words far worse than a punch:_ Whatever made you come for me, forget it. There's nothing for you here._

And seeing Brendan reaching out to Ste, and the hurt in his face when Ste turned from him; and watching him walk away.

And knowing at that moment: knowing that it was Ste. It was Ste who Brendan loved.

:::::::

By the time Macca got back to the house he was gasping for breath. He had run much of the way, and his injured lung felt as if it might burst.

He searched for a number for a cab firm, and booked a taxi to the airport; then he drank a glass of water, swallowed some painkillers, and went upstairs to pack his bag.

He changed his top. The red one he was wearing wasn't his: Brendan must have picked it up by mistake when he'd gone round to collect Macca's stuff from Ste's flat, the day Macca had been hospitalised. He went downstairs, threw the red top into the washing machine, put his bag down beside the door, and sat down to wait for the cab. He felt numb, and he hoped he'd stay that way until he got home: he didn't want to think about anything, not yet.

The front door opened. Brendan saw him and looked as angry as Macca had ever seen him, as he slammed the door and hurtled towards him. Macca shrank into the corner of the sofa, his arms and legs protecting his face and body.

"I've got a cab coming," he shouted to Brendan.

Brendan stopped in his tracks, and looked momentarily fazed.

"You've booked it, yeah?"

"It's on its way."

"Good." Brendan put his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, as if to demonstrate that he was no longer a threat.

Macca relaxed a little. His phone rang, making him jump; it was the cab driver, wanting directions.

"Taxi's gonna be here any minute," he told Brendan, and stood up. "Oh, there's a shirt in the washing machine, think it belongs to Ste."

"Okay." Brendan unlatched the door. "Need a hand with your bag?"

"No thanks." Macca went warily towards the door, where Brendan was standing.

"Got enough money? Enough for your fares, and to keep you going til you're back on your feet, son , yeah?"

"I'm okay."

"Okay."

Sadness suddenly overwhelmed Macca, and he wanted more than anything to say, _Hold me._ But he couldn't say that, not to a man like Brendan.

And then, Brendan held him. Held him so tightly that Macca felt his ribs might break again and splinter into his heart. He shut his eyes, and felt Brendan kiss the top of his head.

:::::::

Stephen's intervention outside that gay bar had unnerved Brendan, and when he got home he was still on edge. Opening the door and seeing Macca still there, as if he'd ignored yet again what Brendan had told him to do, ignited his rage. The way the boy cowered away from him, though, had triggered something in Brendan's memory, and he stopped short, trying to think what it was.

Anyway, it turned out that Macca had done the right thing at last, and booked himself a cab. Brendan made an awkward attempt at conversation: the boy was leaving, no reason not to be civilised now.

It was when they were standing together by the front door that Brendan identified the memory that had been stirred when he'd seen Macca shrinking away from him on the sofa. It was of Vinnie. Vinnie, scrambling away from him on the floor of the Liverpool club, terrified of another kick. Brendan had left for Ireland after that, and had never seen him again, and now it was too late.

But it wasn't too late with Macca. He pulled the boy into his arms, and hoped that holding him one last time would say what he couldn't say in words: that he was sorry. That he wasn't capable of giving Macca what he wanted – what he deserved – but that it had meant something. Not love, course not, but something.

The taxi hooted outside.

"Take care of yourself, son, yeah?" Brendan let go of him; the boy didn't look at him as he picked up his bag and went out. "Good lad."

:::::::

It was Dominic who had started the fire. Mild-mannered Dominic, brother of Tony who owned the restaurant – the restaurant that Dominic torched. Hilarious.

Brendan knew about it before the police did.

Stephen had still been playing hard to get: Brendan had been round to his flat, knocked on the door, but apparently he wasn't there. Later, he'd run into him in the street, and Stephen was all, _Stay away from me._ Accused Brendan of being jealous of Macca. Just because Brendan's gut had twisted when he saw Stephen kissing another man, it didn't mean he was jealous, did it. Brendan dismissed the question, and made a threat: delete that voicemail, or he'd get Stephen fitted up for drugs possession. Well, he had to do something, because this fire thing was giving him sleepless nights.

A bit later, Brendan saw Stephen go into Relish, the burger place; the _Closed_ sign went up, and he was in there for some time. Interesting.

After he'd gone, Brendan went in there too and had a chat with Dominic, who ran the place, and very revealing it was too. Turned out, Dominic needed to get something off his chest: the fire was down to him. The banal details didn't matter, not to Brendan. He took back the phone that Stephen had left with Dominic for safe-keeping – the one with the 'incriminating' voicemail. Candy from a baby. There was nothing to link Brendan to the fire now, just some hysterical accusations, so what Dominic did with his guilty conscience was neither here nor there.

In fact, what Dominic did was give himself up to the police. And what Stephen did, the very next day when word had got around, was show up at Brendan's door.

"Stephen. _Stay away from me_, didn't you say? Yet here you are. I'm confused."

"I've just come round to say sorry. It wasn't you. The fire, I mean."

"So you don't think I tried to murder your kids any more? That's... gratifying."

"Alright. That's all I wanted to say, so..." Stephen turned to go.

"Stephen, I've got something of yours. Come in." Brendan walked off towards the kitchen, and heard the front door shut as Stephen followed him in. Good.

"What is it?" Stephen asked.

"Macca said this was yours." Brendan picked out the red polo shirt from the ironing pile. "He musta packed it by mistake when he left your place."

"Right. Ta. He alright?"

"He went home."

"That's not what I asked."

With effort, Brendan stopped his hands becoming fists.

"Macca's a survivor, Stephen." He sighed. "I didn't hurt him, if that's what you're asking."

"Good." Stephen looked straight at Brendan. "I know he was your boyfriend."

The word made Brendan cringe.

"_Boyfriend?_ Jesus."

"D'you think I'm stupid, Brendan? I _know._"

"Fucksake Stephen, drop it, yeah? You can go now."

"What?"

"I accept your apology, that's what you came for."

Stephen's hesitancy disappeared, replaced by righteousness.

"You can see why I thought it was you that did the fire though can't you, eh?"

"Really? No, no I can't. Arson? Murdering _women_? Jesus, Stephen, you of all people - "

"Me of all people, right! You beat me up, Brendan. How do I know that's the worse you would do?"

Brendan rounded on him, backing him against the wall, but the expression on Stephen's face made him aware that he wasn't helping his own case, and he backed off.

"It's not the same," he said. "Me and you, it's... it's the way things are. We're men. We fight, we get up."

"I don't fight."

Brendan looked at him; he appeared fragile all of a sudden.

"Just for the record, Stephen, I don't think you're stupid, okay?"

"And there wasn't any other lads, you know, before Macca? No-one else is gonna show up here looking for you?"

"No-one else is gonna show up here." Brendan reached out and stroked Stephen's face with his fingertips, then held his head in both hands and leaned his forehead against the boy's. "You shoulda believed me about the fire, Stephen."

"I wanted to. It's just, Rae, and Amy... I got dead confused."

"I know. I... I get that. But this is me, Stephen, this is who I am, yeah? This is _how_ I am. And the way I see it is, either you're with me, or you're against me."

Stephen swallowed, and looked up.

"With you," he said quietly.

And then Brendan was on him, kissing him, steering him into his bedroom, and by the time he'd got what he needed out of the drawer – condoms, a bottle of lube, a pack of wipes – and thrown them onto the bed, Stephen was naked. Brendan pulled him into his arms and held him tightly so that he could feel the boy's ribcage struggling to expand to catch a breath. He let go of him for a moment to pump some lube onto his fingers, then held him again with an arm around his waist, and Stephen hugged around his neck and nuzzled against him. Brendan's fingers found his hole and pushed in; the boy flinched a little, and moaned softly. Brendan felt inside him, curling his fingers until he found the spot that made Stephen begin to pant; he massaged and toyed, and bit hard along the line of his shoulder.

Stephen tugged at the back of Brendan's T-shirt and Brendan released him for a moment to let Stephen drag it off him, and then he held him again, and hooked inside him again. He felt Stephen's erection straining against his thigh.

The boy said something. His voice was muffled against Brendan's neck, so he wasn't sure if the words he heard were _Fuck me,_ or _Love me._ But it didn't matter, because for the first time in Brendan's life, the two things meant the same.

Brendan disengaged, and stripped off his jeans and boxers, and rolled a condom on. He couldn't look at Stephen's eyes because somewhere along the line, the power had shifted, and he couldn't let this boy see that. Brendan had to get it back, because that was who he was, that was how this worked.

"Turn around."

"What?" Stephen frowned.

"Turn around. Jesus, Stephen, it's simple enough." Brendan grasped his shoulders and twisted Stephen away from him, then sat down on the bed and pulled the boy back towards him by his hips, and kissed the small of his back.

Stephen shivered.

"It tickles," he said by way of explanation.

"Thought you liked that. Sit down."

Stephen looked at Brendan dubiously over his shoulder, then realised what was wanted. He lowered himself slowly so that Brendan's cock could enter him, angling his body and manoeuvring so that Brendan got completely inside him. The boy had skills: he arched and twisted and bucked, generous and abandoned, until Brendan came with a roar.

Stephen leaned back against Brendan's chest, his head lolling onto his shoulder. Brendan finished him off with his hands, and when Stephen came into them, he wiped his palms on the boy's thighs.

"Oi," Stephen grumbled.

Brendan held him there against his body, with a hand on his chest; he felt the boy's heartbeat return to normal, and nibbled the taut skin of his neck. Then he pushed him up off his lap, but had to stand up and steady him because Stephen's legs were shaking. Brendan laughed, and kissed him.

:::::::

There was a guy on the plane. In the free-for-all scramble for seats, he'd wound up next to Macca, and as soon as he sat down he had his nose in a book. Macca sneaked a look at him. Tall, he'd noticed before he sat down. Fit-looking: kind of lean and lightly muscled. Hard to tell his age, but there were laughter lines around his eyes, and a few grey hairs at his temples. Mid-thirties, maybe, or a little older.

Soon after the plane took off, he finished his book. Macca saw the cover when he put it down. _Giovanni's Room._

The guy saw him looking.

"Been trying to find the time to finish it." He had a Belfast accent.

"Good, was it?"

"Seriously."

They talked for the rest of the flight.

As the plane taxied at Belfast International, the guy wrote something inside the cover of his book, and handed it to Macca.

"Here. Let me know what you think."

Macca opened it. There was a name, Liam, and a phone number.

Sometime soon, when he'd begun to pick up the pieces and put a life back together, he would call the number. _Hi, Liam? We met on the plane..._

Not yet though. Not yet; but soon.

:::::::

Brendan woke up with Stephen sprawled beside him, fast asleep.

Nothing had been resolved, had it? Rae was still in the picture, more embroiled with Stephen than ever, now that she was helping him look after his children. Amy was in Manchester, but she was bound to be back, whatever she'd said, because her kids were here; and when she came back, she would still hate Brendan. More rumours about him would spring up, and he'd have to fight them. And then there was Stephen himself, who had thought he was capable of murder, and it would be impossible for Brendan to forget that. Forgive him, yes, but not forget.

But right now, it was just him and the boy, in this room, in this bed, and everything else felt abstract.

He propped himself up on one elbow and gently pulled back the cover, and looked at him. He was perfect, the little fucker: the bite marks on his shoulder only served to emphasise the fact. His skin was smooth and clear, his torso and neck dotted here and there with a pattern of tiny moles. His nipples had been hard against Brendan's tongue when they'd come to bed, but now in the warmth of sleep they were flat and soft. His hair was messy. Brendan thought, not for the first time, how ridiculous it was that a grown man should have eyelashes so long.

Stephen stirred, sensing that he was being watched. He opened his eyes and frowned.

"You been looking at me?"

"Don't be soft. Scrawny little bastard, what's there to look at?"

Stephen grinned.

Brendan had wanted him back and, at least for today, he had got him. There was nothing left to say, so Brendan kissed his mouth, and felt his lover's hands in his hair, pulling him closer.


End file.
